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HC by TOP 

mTHOR 


BRAND NEW, MIND-BLASTING, 
BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL 


theNEW DYNAMIC STFMAGAimhf/Crm THAT THRILLS! 

K 

15 ? 


NOV. 25 1 


HUS SKCITINO NEW Pl/TURt-5CllNC£ 
SHORT STOR/ES, FiATURES, DtPARTMENJS 


STORIES 


Would She Turn The Esrthman 
Into a Space Tran^ Who'dRauage 
The Whole Universe? 




HOW 'MIN I-GYM' TURNS PLANT "DRIP" INTO SUCCESS DYNAMO 


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3 



TH£ NEW DYNAMIC STF MAGAZINE 


FICnON THAT THRILLS! 



BRAND-NEW MIND-BLASTING SCIENCE NOVEL 


TRIM ARTHUR J. BURKS 


WANTED: MAN UNDER THIRTY WITHOUT TIES, AMBITIONS, FEARS OR EXPECTATIONS. —That 
was the ad I put in the Times. And Joe X answered if. 1 warned Joe X the job might cost him 
his life, Joe X replied that that was impossible, he couldn't be kilted, t told Joe X that he 
might be driven insane. Joe X assured ms that that was impossible too — because he had no brain! 


★ 




PLUS ANOTHER GREAT FEATURE NOVEL 


A 


★ 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


Gardner F. Fox 


The universe was going to puff out of existence any moment — unless Trenton was willing to 
change at ones from a decent Earthman to a ruthless space tramp. And his fateful choice did 
not end there. For beyond the time-flow Altar. he'd have to decide whether he wanted the 
lovely, gentle golden girl and peace for mankind, or t*ie aHorIng, flame-haired, red-lipped Dra- 
yatha and the conquest of space she promised, the loot and treasure of unguessable centuries! 




A 


2 STAP^TLING FUTURE-SCIENCE NOVELETS 


★ 


★ 


72 


OVERLORD OF EARTH Lioyd Arthur Eshbach 48 

Murderer, sadist, product of an earlier, more violent day, Andrev had learned tha secret of 
physical immortality and lay in a hidden crypt for centuries, waiting patiently for men in their 
growing wisdom to realize the stupidity of war — and so in their new peacefulness, to become 
easy prey for his blood-thirsty villainy! 

FISESRAMO! A. Bertram Chandler 109 

She was small, this woman, and strikingly brunette, her hair closely cropped, almost Ilka a 
man's. And her face was neither beautiful nor even pretty, but it had a satanIc charm that 
made dull and uninteresting the Venusian beauties Fleming kad known. And she wore Tha 
Weapon, tha notorious, blood Weapon ...Yes. Fleming knew that at last he was actually face 
to face with The Firebrand! 


3 THRILLING SHORT STORIES 


THE C.ATAAAA A. E. Van Vogt 38 

A liitle classic by one of the most brilliant science-fiction writers of our day. 

THE GUIHEA-PIG Cedric Walker 62 

Fsatingless devils, those biologists! They'd never rest until everything in the whole world crept 
from their ghastly operating tables — even numan beings! 

THE DAY THEY LANDED Paul Chadwick 101 

Why, those othsr-world invaders didn’t even have a permit to land their crazy contraption in 
the town park! The Selectmen of Eastboro were never going to stand for that! 


'k -k 


OTHER ARTICLES AND DEPARTMENTS 


WHY W> MIGHT HAVE ANOTHER WORLD WAR! Alden Lorraine 

RACE TO i'Hi MOON F. J. Ackerman 

Sa,ns.it;ondl n.ws for sciefi :e-f!Cfion fans from our Hollywood [on tha Moonj correspondantl 

AMAZlfliG SCIENCE ADVENTURES ?. E. Jones & Ackerman 

MAitVEL’S BOOK REVIEWS 98 

SaHiN'D T HE ATE EA l I A Mortion O d dity 128 

V OL. 3 . NO. I NOV. 1950 


47 

60 

69 


Ediror, R. O. Erisman, Ediiorial Associates, Grace Brandeis, Arthur Lane. 
Cover lilustratlon: Norman Saunders: TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 
Story Illustrations by F. R. Paul, V. Napoli 




puulishfd quanerly by STADIUM PUBLiSHINU CORPOiiATIOX. 

Appiicaiioii t'oi' aecond class entry a-pplied for at Post Office. 
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purely comciaen'.al. CoiKenta copyright 19od by Stadium P’ablLsMns Corporation. Printed In the U.S.A. 


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5 





BRAND NEW! 
MIND^BLASTING! 


I wanted a man wiDing to sign himself over to me body 
and soul, so I anticipated some strange applicants. But 
I didn’t anticipate Joe X. When I warned Joe X the job 
might cost him his life, he replied that that was impos- 
sible, he couldn’t be killed. And when I told him that he 
might be driven insane, Joe X assured me that that was 
impossible too — because he had no brain! 



CHAPTER I JOE X 

H e V/AS young, not over twenty-five, and black-eyed and black- 
haired — a good six feet of vigorous, sturdy manhood at, say, one 
hundred and eighty pounds. He presented himself at my 'aboratory 
bearing the ad I’d put in the Times; 


TWELVE YEARS AGO, IN MARVELS FAMOUS FIRST ISSUE. WE PUB- 
LISHED ARTHUR J. BURKS' "SURVIVAL" AND IT WAS IMMEDIATELY 
ACCLAIMED AN ALL-TIME STF CLASSIC. WILL THIS SENSATIONAL 
NEW BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL BY "AMERICA'S MOST OARING IMAG- 
INATION" V/IN EVEN GREATER RENOWN? 


6 


7 



8 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


WANTED: MAN UNDER THIRTY 

WITHOUT TIES, AMBITIONS, 

FEARS OR EXPECTATIONS. 

WRITE BOX X47, THE TIMES. 

“How did you know where to 
come?'^ I demanded. “That’s a blind 
ad.” 

He held up his big right hand, as 
though to calm me. 

“I didn't get your address from 
the newspaper, or anyone else. I 
don’t know how I got here. I often 
have lapses like this. My name is 
Joe X.” 

Like that, it began. Well, I wanted 
a man willing to sign himself over 
to me body and soul, risking his 
life for science, hourly and daily, 
as I myself did, so I expected un- 
usual applicants. I’d run that ad for 
six months, and had quickly dis- 
couraged scores of curiosity seekers. 
I put it to “Joe X” at once, straight 
from the shoulder, as I had to all the 
others. 

“The job is dangerous,” I said. “It 
may cost you your life.” 

“I can’t be killed,” he said. “It’s 
quite impossible.” 

That kind of brought me up again, 
but I pushed on with my standard 
interview without comment. 

“You may he driven insane,” I 
continued. 

“No,” he smiled a bit sadly at me. 
“That’s impossible, too. / have no 
brain!*' 

That was the real jolt. This liar 
intrigued me. 

“I’m an orphan,” he went on. 
“Nobody ever wanted me. Once v/hen 
I was nine and all the other kids 
spent Christmas with families, and 
nobody asked for me, I decided to 
commit suicide. I swallowed the 
contents of three aspirin bottles. As 
I fell into a deep sleep a shining 
figure appeared before me, shook 
his head, said : ‘This is not the way ; 
you must live your time !’ I was found, 
pumped out, lectured, chastised. At 
twelve I decided to make sure. I 
went into a closet with a new one- 
inch rope, hanged myself. But the 
same shining figure appeared, shook 
his head sadly, and said: T hate to 
disappoint you, but I have to cut 


the rope !’ He did, too, with a big 
scissors. You won’t believe it, nor 
has anybody else, but when I re- 
gained consciousness the rope had 
actually been cut!” 

“Naturally,” I said. “Spooks do it 
all the time !” 

“Go ahead and laugh,” he said. 
“Everybody does who hears it — of 
whom there are not many.” 

“Proceed,” I said. “I can’t call you 
a liar because I can’t check back (Hi 
you.” 

“Oh, but you can. I thought you 
must knov/ that ! I’ll give you all 
the data, if we agree on something, 
so that you can check on the truth 
of my assertions! I early realized 
that I could not die by accident, of 
diseases, or suicide, or be murdered. 
Everything of the kind had a chance 
to kill me and failed. I won’t detail 
the incidents except those which 
can be checked for truthfulness. 

“During World War II I was 
a’ooard a ship which was torpedoed 
in chill waters fifty miles off the 
west English coast. Waves were 
miles high. I was thrown into the 
water and instantly separated from 
everybody else. All others were, I 
was told, lost. I swam easily, 
knowing it impossible to live in the 
mountainous seas. Here at last is 
certain peace, I thought. But the 
figure I had seen so many times 
before suddenly stood oh the water 
near me and said: ‘Keep swimming, 
for this is not the time !’ I kept 
swimming, wishing I did not have to. 
I swam for hours when I was picked 
up by a British destroyer. Everybody 
aboard said it was impossible I 
should be alive, unhurt, not even 
very tired.” 

“Make it good!” I said grimly. 

“It's all a matter of record,” said 
Joe X. “I’ll give you the name later, 
if we get together.” He grinned. 
“After all, if you can use a blind ad, 
why can’^t I make my application 
under a blind name?” 

“Go ahead!” I went on. 

ATER ON I W'as part of a 
special flight mission over 
The Plump. Somehow we got far off 



TRIN 


9 


course. I think it was intentional, 
and for a purpose, but nobody told 
me. I was an enlisted man. After 
many hours we were over a portion 
of Tibet. That’s what the pilot said. 
We were all on oxygen. I remember 
the pilot saying that Tibetan 
authorities had forbidden flyers of 
all nations to fly over this particular 
area. No sooner had he said this than 
our entire left v/ing broke off and 
vanished. We were flying at fifteen 
thousand, but most of inhabited 
Tibet is at an average of ten 
thousand feet above sea level. We 
v/ere not far above land.” 

“So you crashed and you were the 
sole survivor!” I said. 

“That’s right,” said Joe X. “It’s a 
matter of record.” 

“You provided the record, being 
the only survivor,” I went on. 

“No, the pilot lived long enough 
to tell about it, in writing!” 

“Oh,” was all I could think of, 
somehow, to comment. 

“The shining figure,” went on Joe 
X, “stood on the good wing and 
told me I could not die in this crash, 
that the time was not yet, that I 
must do my job. Trouble has always 
been I’ve never had the slightest idea 
what my job is, my real job, I mean.” 

Joe X left the story for a moment, 
stared at the wall. 

“You said you were brainless,” 
I said. “How does that happen?” 

“I was on furlough in Shanghai,” 
he said. “I wandered into Kiukiang, 
off the Bund. I had never been in 
China before, yet the further I went 
along the gloomy street the more 
familiar it became. I had traveled 
it hundreds of times through 
hundreds of years maybe — that’s how 
it seemed. I knew just what lay 
ahead, around each turn. I was in a 
ricksha. We were approaching a dead 
end. The coolie said we could go no 
further. I told him the way turned 
left. He insisted, I insisted, he 
refused to take me on, so I walked, 
and the way did turn left. I knew, 
I came to a silent compound with 
an ancient temple on its far side. 
I was met by two yellow-robed 
Tibetan monks. They smiled at me 


and one said: ‘You have been slow 
in coming!’ It must have been in 
English, for it’s the only language 
I know. The other monk called me 
by the name I shall give you if we 
make a deal !” 

“Nice fantasy,” I said. “But what 
about the missing brain?” 

“Why,” he said, arching his brows, 
“the monks took mine and put some- 
thing in its place. It was supposed 
to make me perfect, but I have small 
lapses that frighten me. Otherwise 
I feci about as I always did. They 
said I would. They did it that way so 
I should not feel strange to myself.” 

“And what happened to your 
original brain?” 

“They kept it. I shall reclaim it 
one day, they told me !” 

“A neat, impossible job of trephin- 
ing, I suppose, done by Tibetan 
monks,” I said. “Up to there I could 
have believed you, if the surgeons 
v/ere the world’s best. But to remove 
the entire brain and supply some- 
thing else — no, not even if the 
world’s best did it, and told me so 
in person !” 

“I didn’t expect you to believe it,” 
said Joe X. “The operation was done 
without pain. They used something 
that smelled liked incense, as an 
anesthetic. I sav/ no instruments of 
any kind.” 

“And of course they left no marks 
on your skull!” I sneered. 

“Oh, but they didt” said Joe X. 
“You may look.” 

I LOOKED. It wasn’t just a 
simple trephining job that had 
been done on this increasingly 
mysterious liar; the whole top of his 
skull had been completely removed 
and restored. The line was there to 
show where it had been done. I 
shuddered. I got the shakes for fair. 
I got the shakes more than most men 
would, I think, because of the life- 
time task I had set myself. 

I’m Chester Lowre, forty years of 
age, a scientific recluse, bent on 
probing the secrets of the human 
brain. We are told that only one 
eighth of the brain is used even by 
geniuses. Seven eighths of it is a 


10 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


mystery. But Nature does not 
construct to no purpose. The other 
seven eighths of the brain.... 

Well, I didn’t know, but I had 
probed deeply enough to have been 
v/ishing, the last four years, that I 
could manage to live for two or 
three hundred years, that I might 
dig the more deeply into the great 
human secret. 

I studied that skull. It had the 
shape of high evolvement. This man 
could be a genius, if skull shape 
meant anything — which I knew it 
did. 

‘*One other thing,” Joe X just 
tossed it in, as of no account, ‘T can’t 
be hurt, either, not since the removal 
of my brain. I can feel inner hurt, 
like sorrow, heartache, loneliness, 
but not pain. I guess all the pain I 
should have known was transferred 
to my Inner. ...” 

**You spoke of lapses,” I suggested, 
interrupting to get him away from 
something I felt to be creepy, and 
better left to a later time. “Just 
what did you mean?” 

“One of them brought me to your 
door,” be said, “told me to knock. 
It’s like this: I’ll be walking south, 
here in New York City, for instance, 
say on Fifth Avenue. I’ll notice the 
cross street. Let’s say it’s 110th. 
I notice what time it is. I find I 
don’t care whether cars run me down 
or not, so I pay no attention to 
them, or to traffic lights. I think 
perhaps I’ll walk down to the Bat- 
tery. There is a lapse. I am at the 
Battery, sitting down, looking out on 
the water. I look at my watch. It is 
ten minutes since I realized I was 
walking south on Fifth Avenue — at 
noth Street! There is no way, no 
way at all possible, by which I can 
travel so far so fast — not by taxi or 
subway. . .but there I am. It often 
happens.” 

“And that’s how you located me?” 

“Yes. I saw the ad, clipped it, went 
out on the street. I guess I was going 
to the newspaper office, or maybe to 
some hotel to write a letter to you. 
Next thing I knew I had already 
knocked on your door!” 

I stared at the liar, the insane Joe 


X. After all, my supreme interest is 
the secret brain. What did it matter 
to me if Joe X was a pathological 
liar, insane? 

“My funds are limited,” I said. 
“The hours are long. You may have 
to sit very still for as long as 
seventy-two hours. But you live here, 
eat with me. I have a good cook. 
Her husband waits on me, will wait 
on you. They never ask questions.” 

“Funds,” he said, “don't matter. I 
always have the money I need.” 

“Indeed?” I arched my brows. “I 
wish I could say that. I never have 
enough for my scientific work. May 
I ask the source of your funds?” 

“I don’t know,” he said simply. ‘T 
keep on spending what I have in my 
purse, but it is always there!” He 
raised his hand to silence me. “It 
isn^t always the same bills or small 
change ! In fact they’re never the 
same, just the same amount, suf- 
ficient for the needs of the day, 
week, month ! It isn’t counterfeit 
money, either.” 

“You’ll be very handy to have 
around, Joe X,” I said. “Now if you 
just had a scientific background 
too—” 

“Ask me questions!” said Joe X 
tersely. 

I began asking. I made the quiz 
tougher and tougher. He never 
missed once, not even the most 
abstruse mathematical query. I began 
to ask him about formulae and ex- 
periments of which only I knew — 
and he knew all about those too, 
grinning, as if he enjoyed mystify- 
ing me ! 

So when I had done I said 

bluntly: “If you think you can stand 
me, I can stand you. Maybe this is 
the work you’re here to do, if you 
believe in predestination. Now, your 
right name, please.” 

“My orphanage name,” he correct- 
ed me. “I never knew my right one, 
or whether I had a right one. 

They used to tell me my mother was 
unutterably lovely. They never 

mentioned a father though I must 
have had one. The orphanage name is 
Carse Ryal Smith. They made it odd 
to distinguish me from other 

Smiths.” 


TRIM 


U 


f WAS GOING to ask about him 
by telegram to Washington. But 
there could be other Carse Ryal 
Smiths. He himself suggested I take 
his fingerprints. The information I 
wanted about Joe X wasn’t available 
to outsiders, usually, but I wasn’t an 
outsider. I did secret work for 
Washington when Public Enemies 
were questioned. 

I queried the orphanage, sending 
along a picture Joe X gave me, taken 
v.’hen he was twelve, just after the 
rope v/ith v/hich he had tried to hang 
himself had been “cut.” I satisfied 
myself that it was a picture of this 
Joe X. 

I had answers from Washington in 
forty-eight hours. Joe X had told the 
truth about his two escapes from cer- 
tain death. Authentication was based 
on unimpeachable evidence, other 
than Carse Ryal Smith’s own. Fin- 
gerprints matched. 

The/ orphanage reports were true, 
also, but a bit of information, under 
a seal of secrecy, that made my hair 
stand on end, was this: Carse Ryal 
Smith was a trin, a triplet if you 
prefer. There were two trin brothers, 
still alive. It had been thought best 
to keep Joe X ignorant of this fact 
since the trio had to be separated 
anyway. I was still not to tell him. 
Queer, but there it. was, and why I, 
a stranger to the orphanage officials, 
should be given the forbidden in- 
formation voluntarily, I had no idea. 

Plenty of mystery remained for 
which there was no confirmation, 
or only partial corroboration, so that 
I knevv^ I had something of vast in- 
terest with which, and Vv^ith whom to 
work. 

Had Joe X’s entire brain been re- 
moved? I saw' the marks of the op- 
eration, which proved nothing, im- 
plied much. 

What about Joe X’s “lapses?” I 
could only an&'wer that question by 
asking another, also unanswerable: 
how had he got to my door with 
nothing to help him but a blind ad? 

And what about his inability to 
feel pain? Medical records proved 
that homo sapiens were occasionally 


born lacking the sensation of pain. 
Such a one had to be guarded con- 
stantly until old enough to know his 
condition, else he could die — by 
burning for instance — without feel- 
ing the pain and so avoiding it. 

This was easy to settle. 

“You can’t feel pain?” I asked, 
that first day, before I had answers 
to my telegrams. 

He grinned at me. He looked at the 
gear on my work table, selected an 
electric soldering iron, switched it 
on, allowed it to come to white heat 
— then deliberately grasped it! 

I yelled at him, called him a fool. 
The smell of his roasting palm filled 
my laboratory instantly. Joe X just 
grinned at me, clearly undisturbed. 
But he dropped the iron, showed 
me his hideously marred right palm. 

This was true, too, then; Joe X 
felt no pain. 

And what about that which hap- 
pened immediately after he proved to 
me that he could feel no pain? What 
attribute of mystery was it that re- 
stored his hand to health and whole- 
ness faster even than it had been 
charred, while I watched, and while 
the odor of burnt flesh still hung in 
the laboratory? 

These mysteries must all be solved. 
If Joe X, after that, had tried to 
leave my service I believe I would 
have forcibly made him my prisoner, 
provided, that is, any bonds or bars 
could hold him. He might “lapse” 
himself out of them. 

His “shining figure” was, of 
course, hallucination. No scientist 
could accept that, 

“Our first work,” I told Joe X, 
whom I continued thereafter to think 
of as Joe X because, if mankind was 
ever an unknown quantity, Joe X was 
the epitome thereof, “will be with my 
newly developed zranthon tube.” 

“Yes,” he said gravely, “I know 
about it.” 

He did, too, and told me much of 
its details — not one of which, as far 
as I knew, had ever got out past my 
door. The name zranthon I had in 
that instant coined : he nodded his 
head v/hen he heard the name, as if 
he had always known it! 


12 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


CHAPTER II 
THE ZRAHTHON TUBE 



1 AU ESPECIALLY interested 
in people belonging to what 
"normal” folk call the "lunatic 
fringe." I am acutely aware that 
Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, the Wright 
Brothers, Louis Pasteur, Paracelsus 
and many others, belonged to the 
fringe in their own time. Then they 
became the "greats” of the world. 
I’ve no intention, personally, of pass- 
ing up any of them. I spend my 
spare time digging in old book 
stores — there are many down around 
Astor Place — for fiction and non- 
fiction done by members of the luna- 
tic fringe which have ended up 
where, I dare say, "normal" people 
feel it belongs. 

I am interested scientifically in the 
esoteric. I do a lot of wondering 
about mediums, seances, fortune tell- 
ers, geomancers, people who not only 
believe in reincarnation but insist 
they can remember past lives — who’s 
to prove they can’t .^ — and people who 
know what’s going to happen in the 
ages to come. 

If they’re specific in their "find- 
ings” I take their material into my 
laboratory. If some lunatic fringer 
"remembers” machinery used in At- 
lantis, like nothing modern man ever 
dreamed of, I’m never satisfied un- 
til I have a look at the possibilities. 

My current investigation, and so 
far the most interesting, was based 
on the "prophecies” of a lunatic 


fringer raised to the nth power. 
He held that there was a perfect 
way to communicate between per- 
sons, and that future races would 
make use of it. If, for example, I am 
thinking of a road, and use the word 
"road” in my conversation with 
another, the road of v/hich I speak, 
and the road he sees in his mind 
when he hears me speak the v/ord 
"road” are invariably and inevitably 
vastly different. Our experiences are 
different. The esotericist said that 
the time would come when man, na- 
turally, would show exactly what he 
meant v/hen he used a word or 
phrase, because the picture of his 
thought v/ould appear on a natural 
screen beside his head as he spoke. 
What he said would be so carefully 
and exactly detailed on the screen 
that nobody could possibly misun- 
derstand his meaning. Newspapers, 
books, radio, television, contracts, 
blueprints, machines, plans, maps, 
prospectuses, letters, paintings, 
drawings — all these and many more 
were, he said, the forerunners of 
what he called the "mental screen” 
with which man v/ould one day be 
born. 

I found it intriguing, and. ..I was 
about to say reasonable, but that I 
wouldn’t be able to say, one way or 
the other, until I had exhausted 
every investigational possibility. My 
interest was in the submerged seven 
eighths of the human brain. Dreams, 
nonsense, hallucinations, spooks, 
prophecies, visions of past lives, even 
the belief in past lives, were all 
mentally produced somehow, and 
therefore matters of legitimate in- 
terest. 

I took nobody into my complete 
confidence about these matters in 
detail. I personally did not care to 
be considered as being in the "lu- 
natic fringe.” 

But I told Joe X that I was in- 
terested in developing, if scientific- 
ally possible, the "mental screen.” 
The screen itself, since man was not 
yet born with it, had to be made. I 
had worked with it for two solid 
years, with little rest and with lit- 
tle thought as to whether it would be 


TRIM 


13 


commercially valuable. 

I began with the cathode-ray tube. 
I developed it to the place where I 
could project an image of my 
thought, somewhat blurred, upon 
an electrical field. I did not question 
whether the brain radiated electrical 
impulses. I didn’t care. I wanted to 
discover. I was able to set up a field 
of unknown dimensions, in a given 
area of ordinary atmosphere, which 
was different from anything outside 
it. I knew it was different, but not 
how, for not only was my tube, the 
zranthon tube, inside the “field”, but 
I had to be also! In other words, I 
couldn’t study the mental projection 
for much the same reason a man 
can’t lift himself by his own boot- 
straps. I couldn’t go and stay at the 
same time. 

I had to have someone with whom 
to work. It had to be his mental 
images, inside the zranthon field, so 
that I could study them without con- 
cern. Man and tube must stay inside 
the field, for the tube made the field, 
and the man thought forth the im- 
ages. How? I wasn’t yet sure. That 
it was cumbersome there was no 
doubt. What good was a means of 
communication if the communicator 
couldn’t go anywhere or say any- 
thing? But many beginnings are dis- 
couragingly cumbersome. 

I wanted to measure the field. I 
wanted .... 

“You want a mental screen,” said 
Joe X softly. “You want to prove 
that such a screen is possible. Too 
bad, isn’t it, that I have no mind?” 

H e had a sense of humor, then, 
and therefore a mind, no mat- 
ter of what it was made, natural or 
synthetic. 

“You’ll do,” I said. My laboratory 
was far out on Riverside Drive, in 
a greystone house inherited from 
generations of Lowres, all of v/hom 
had strange avocations. I was no 
anti-social, but I couldn’t do all I 
wished and spend time talking to 
friends and neighbors. There was so 
much to do, so little time. One day I 
would make sleep unnecessary. . but 
that was something else again. “But 


remember, it may blow up and scat- 
ter the house, me, the laboratory and 
you all over New York City.” 

“No,” he said, “I’ll walk out of 
any such explosion without a scratch, 
unless,” he looked hopeful,- sudden- 
ly, “it happens to be my time when 
it happens!” 

“I wish you wouldn’t act as if you 
couldn’t endure life !” I said to him 
sharply. “You may well be in a po- 
sition right now to do something 
sublimely great for humanity!” 

“That would be too bad !” he 
answered. “Why should I?” 

I could think of no reason why he 
should, nor did I try to argue. 
Man must settle his own arguments 
with life, people and destiny. 

“Can you think of anything better 
to do?” I asked. 

“Yes, do the thing that keeps me 
from being unutterably bored! 
That’s why I answered your ad. 
When do we start?” 

Joe X became a member of my 
household then and there. Somehow 
he contrived not to seem strange to 
Hattie Hyde and her husband Zack. 
I noted that Hattie often stared at 
him as if he had three heads, and 
that Zack never spent much time 
around him, but that wasn’t unusual. 
They both behaved much the same 
v/ay toward me. Maybe they thought 
I had produced Joe X in my labora- 
tory ! 

Joe X seated himself comfortably 
in an easy chair in the middle of 
my workshop, I cleared everything 
away around him for a distance of 
fifteen feet in all directions. I did 
not believe that the field extended 
further than that, nor higher than the 
ceiling, also fifteen feet and the rea- 
son why I decided on fifteen feet 
for the other two dimensions. 

The zranthon tube was two feet 
long, six inches in diameter, and if 
I hadn’t told Joe X he wouldn’t have 
known v/here it was. No, that’s 
wrong, he knew! It was the “third 
arm” of the easy chair. It swung 
between the two regular arms to 
form an arm rest, slid back in slots 
in the two arms so that it could be 
near to or far from the person in 


14 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


the chair. Contact with the sitter 
was, apparently, required. A man 
could sit with his elbows on it, face 
in hands, could sit forward and nap 
with his forehead or cheek on it, do 
anything with it he wished, so long 
as there was contact. But principal- 
ly, he thought. 

Contact with any part of the hu- 
man body by the zranthon tube ren- 
dered it operative. It began to build 
the zranthon field as soon as Joe X 
sat down and swung the third arm 
into position. I could call the field 
“magnetic” or say that it was an 
area of “ionized air” and be approxi- 
mately correct. The zranthon tube’s 
operations were, however, somewhat 
different. The tube built the field, 
invisible brick by invisible brick, or 
whatever it was that was used — one 
of the things I hoped, with the help 
of Joe X, to find out. 

I moved away from Joe X, sat 
down facing him, to watch. We were 
just two ordinary human beings, 
staring at each other from a distance 
of fifteen feet, like mute idiots. In 
a few moments I spoke to Joe X. He 
touched his ears, shook his head. He 
could not hear me. He knew I spoke 
because he could see my lips move. 
A few moments after that I knew he 
could not see, either. He just sat, 
and stared. I got scared, though it 
had gone no further than it had with 
me, dozens of times. But Joe X,with 
that scar around his skull, might not 
be able to stand all I knew I could. 
I rose determinedly and strode to- 
v/ard Joe X. I couldn’t reach him. 
I stopped stockstill, almost fif- 
teen feet from him. I wasn’t up 
against a stone wall. I was up against 
something intangible, invisible, but 
real. I was stuck! I could approach 
no nearer. 

I went all the way around Joe X. 
He seemed to be surrounded by, to 
be comfortably sitting in, an invis- 
ible cylinder. He did not follow me 
with his eyes. He might already be 
dead. If no images of his thoughts 
appeared I would soon know he was 
dead. Some minutes must yet elapse 
before the images could be expected. 

I went clear around the cylinder. 


Then I got a stepladder, stood close 
against the cylinder, climbed, fum- 
bled at the top. There was a space 
of perhaps ten inches between the 
cylinder’s top and the ceiling. Unim- 
portant, maybe, but one never can 
be sure, so I recorded it. 

S WAS SOON aware that Joe X 
had been much concerned because 
I had doubted some of the things 
he told me. His first mental image, 
quite clear in the depths of the 
cylinder, standing near Joe’s right 
hand, was what I knew to be 
his “shining figure!” I stared in 
amazement and unbelief. I had seen 
statues of that type by the hundreds. 
But this image seemed to be alive. 
It could see me. It smiled at me, 
bowed slightly, raised its hand. I’m 
an atheist. I don’t believe. .. .but a 
scientist can’t say he doesn’t believe 
anything, not until he has proved 
its untruth. 

I was an investigator. I now in- 
vestigated. As I had just circled the 
cylinder, so I now circled the shin- 
ing figure. It did not turn to face 
me as I walked. It, simply, con- 
tinued to face me without moving at 
all ! I gulped, swallowed. Could this 
really be something in the way of 
communications, indicating that the 
man of tomorrow, equipped with my 
invention, or naturally, would be un- 
derstood in his words and thoughts 
by anyone who could see him, wheth- 
er facing him, back to him, or in 
profile? I was going too fast. This 
was just an image. 

But was it just an image? I had 
neglected to take away the step-lad- 
der I had climbed to determine the 
dimensions of the cylinder. It stood, 
sidewise, almost in contact with the 
cylinder. I almost bumped into it. 
As I would have touched it a queer 
thing happened : the “shining figure” 
shot forth a hand as if to remove the 
stepladder from my path. The hand 
touched the ladder, pulled. The lad- 
der tilted over into the cylinder and 
completely vanished! It was, sudden- 
ly, neither in nor outside the cyl- 
inder. 

Moreover, the “shining figure” dis- 


TRIM 


15 


solved into something else : a street 
scene in Shanghai. I knew it because 
I knew Shanghai. I would have 
known it anyway because of Joe X’s 
story. I saw Joe X entering a com- 
pound. I faced the temple about 
which he had told me. Two yellow- 
robed Tibetans came out of the tem- 
ple. Tibetans? They Were no more 
Tibetans than I am ! They were 
dressed as Tibetans. They had long 
hair, like Tibetan sorcerers. Their 
headdress pulled their faces so that 
their eyes slanted ever so little; but 
they were not Tibetans. They 
were. . . 

Both figures were staring at me. 
When I thought, "They are not Ti- 
betans**, both men touched fingers 
to lips, shook their heads. I tried 
to erase “no Tibetans” from my 
mind. Thereafter they ignored me. 
They took me through the operation 
of which Joe X had told me, v/hich 
Joe X never saw but now did, the 
one in which his brain was removed 
and something left in its place. I 
would have accepted v/hat I saw as 
gospel truth but for one thing : it 
proceeded from Joe X! Even so, as a 
study of the human mind, it was in- 
teresting. Actually, it looked as if 
the brain of Joe X were taken from 
his skull in a weird bit of bloodless 
surgery, and lowered carefully into 
a huge transparent jar of some color- 
less liquid where, I knew, it con- 
tinued to live! 

But if they put anything in the 
brain’s place when they readjusted 
the skull — which I watched them do 
with immense admiration for their 
technique — I didn’t see what it was. 
It could have been nothing, Joe X, 
if this were true, could be brain- 
less, literally! 

UDDENLY the cylinder was 
empty of anything but Joe X, 
the easy chair, the zranthon-ray tube. 

I could see into the cylinder far 
enough to see Joe X in some detail. 
I could not see through it. I heard 
an odd sound, such as the stepladder 
might have made if, while standing, 
it were jiggled. I couldn’t see it. But 
1 went around the cylinder, and there 


it was, somehow returned from the 
“field.” 

Then, for ten solid hours there 
was absolutely nothing! Just Joe X, 
the zranthon-ray tube, and the easy 
chair. The field was not extending, 
I knew, but its force was building 
up. I could see it in the subtle chang- 
ing of Joe X’s body. I could feel it 
all around me. The atmosphere 
seemed to crackle without actually 
crackling. Great power was growing 
here. 

Preparation was being made for 
something cataclysmic, and I began 
to be afraid. I could not communi- 
cate with Joe X by any regular 
means. He could only communicate 
with me via the field, but could 
neither see nor hear me. I don’t like 
being afraid. It isn’t a good way for 
any scientist to feel. I couldn’t reach 
Joe X. He could only get himself 
out. I had explained to him just how 
to do it. Had I made a mistake by 
giving him credit for knowing more 
than any man of twenty-five could 
possibly know? 

Maybe he could understand, at 
that, for suddenly Joe X’s voice 
broke in. 

“It’s all right, Mr. Lowre, it's 
going forward properly.” He grinned 
at me, too, clearly now able to see 
me. 

“Can you hear me also?” 1 asked. 

“Of course. The field is now com- 
plete. The time has come to probe 
more deeply. But there is no way 
I can help you, Mr. Lowre, and re- 
main inside the field, as I must— 
and you are going to need help. You 
need two qualified assistants.” 

I sometimes used assistants. I had 
a working arrangement with several 
laboratories, some private, some in- 
dustrial. I began running them over 
in my mind. I was looking at Joe X 
as I thought. 

“There are Crandall and Bogan, at 
the M.A.C. Labs,” I thought. 

Joe X shook his head! He kept 
right on shaking his head until, 
stumped, I shook my head in turn, 
after naming every young assistant 
available to me, whom I had ever 
used. 


16 


MARVEL SCtEKCE STORIES 


“Run through your Red Book Di- 
rectory/’ suggested Joe X. “Pick the 
laboratory that sounds right, tele- 
phone and explain that you need 
someone who knov/s how to 
work. ...” 

“I’m still running this laboratory 
and this experiment,” I told Joe X 
stiffly. “I think I shall know what 
to tell an assistant!” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lowre,” said Joe 
X, instantly contrite. “I guess I’m 
too deeply interested in the experi- 
ment.” 

“I’m sorry, too,” I retorted. “In- 
flated ego has no place in this kind 
of an investigation !” 

I felt ashamed as I thumbed 
through the Red Book, picked an 
outfit, dialed, told someone on the 
other end what I wanted. Two young 
GI’s were available and eager to pick 
up a little extra change. They would 
be with me in an hour. Their dis- 
cretion could be relied on. Uncle 
Sam had used them both in top 
secret jobs and still did when need- 
ed. 

The two young men, serious, neat- 
ly dressed, were about the same age 

as Joe X. 

I shook hands with them. One was 
Clyde Baird, a brunet, the other Dan 
Partos, a redhead. 

They introduced themselves. I 
shook hands with them. I knsv/ I 
had never seen either before. But 
they looked vaguely familiar, a feel- 
ing that continued to grov/ inside 
me. It nagged at me, made me un- 
easy. If either had ever seen or 
heard of me before, neither gave any 
sign. I wished I hadn’t sent for 
them, and instantly regretted my sus- 
picion. 

Both men stared at Joe X when I 
took them' into my laboratory. Joe X 
stared back. I introduced everybody. 
Clyde Baird started forward to shake 
hands, stopped as I had stopped. Dan 
Partos stood fast, noting that some- 
thing held his companion as if he 
had frozen in place. 

Both turned and looked oddly at 
me. 

“Ionized air, but more advanced,” 
I explained, thus explaining nothing. 

What really interested me at the 


moment was that Joe X seemed not 
to know either man, nor did they 
show any signs of recognizing Joe X. 
Why I had suspected they might, I 
don’t know, for I had chosen no 
laboratory suggested by Joe X. He 
hadn’t suggested any; yet, since he 
had mentioned the Red Bock, he had 
suggested all of them that used tele- 
phones ! 

I explained what the two needed 
to know, told them it was highly 
secret. They nodded. We agreed on 
an honorarium. This done we turned 
our attention to the cylinder, Joe 
X. , . .and the three baseball-sized 
black balls which Vvcre a feature of 
the first scientific image. They rest- 
ed at three corners of a kind of 
rack, also ebon, that seemed to stand, 
not float, just inside the cylinder, 
within easy reach of all three of us. 

CHAPTER III 
THE BIG MARBLES 



I NOTICED for the first time 
that the easy chair no longer sat 
squarely on the floor. It had ris- 
en to a foot or so above it. If Baird 
and Partos noticed they gave no sign. 
They did rne-’ice the black balls in the 
tray, or rack. 

“What are they?” asked Partos. 

I didn't know. I wasn’t ready to 
explain. 

“It’s routine to turn solids into 
gases,” I said, “by fire, by gas, by 
any number of ways. It’s easy, sim- 
ple, to reduce created things, forms, 
to their component parts, rendering 


TRIM 


17 


them, usually, invisible, though often 
still fragrant for a time. Here we 
are reversing the process. We’re tak- 
ing what we need from the atmos- 
phere and giving it visible form.” 

“How?” asked Baird. “And what 
are the black balls?” 

“I don’t know,” I said. “We’re try- 
ing to find out.” 

For some minutes we stared at the 
three black balls in the equally black 
tray. Each ball seemed to rest in a 
pocket, half of its sphere above the 
level of the tray. The balls were at 
the apices of an equilateral triangle 
about two feet on each side. I hadn’t 
the slightest idea of what they were 
composed, or how they came to be 
where they were. I waited for en- 
lightenment while Baird and Partos 
circled the cylinder, sat beside me 
again and said they could see the 
three black balls in the black tray, in- 
side the cylinder, all the way around 
back to the starting point. But nei- 
ther tray nor balls seemed to move. 

There seemed no sense in what we 
saw. There was no possibility of get- 
ting close to them. They seemed to 
be about six feet inside the cylinder, 
above the spot where the shining 
figure had stood, where the “Tibet- 
ans” had performed their weird 
operation. All three of us had had 
the experience of trying to step into 
that field. None had made it. 

But nothing happened. There were 
fio new figures, no change in the 
balls. Several minutes that seemed 
like hours, passed. Then the tray 
moved toward me until one side of 
it, in which was the pocket contain- 
ing one of the balls, appeared to be 
outside the field. 

It was a peculiar way for an 
“image”, a "thought form”, to be- 
have. Theoretically, my theory was 
that only inside the field built up by 
the zranthon, was it possible for a 
mental image to be seen. Here was 
part of one proving the theory false. 

It would not be tangible, of course. 
Like the shining figure and the 
Tibetans it was a thought, or thought 
sequence, empty of substance, 
weightless, intangible, virtually non- 
existent. 

I looked at Partos, to my right, at 


Baird to my left. They were waiting 
for me to make the obvious move. I 
made it, expecting no sensation what- 
ever — and touched a solid thing with 
my extended hand! I felt the edge 
of the black tray. I touched the 
shape of the black ball clearly out- 
side the zranthon field. It felt like a 
huge marble. It was somewhat larger 
than a baseball. 

I came to a decision. I caught the 
tray by the corners, as a waiter would 
have done, withdrew it from the 
field. It remained intact. The black 
tray and the three black balls were 
still visible, tangible. I held the 
tray in my left hand, my hand under 
the tray’s center. The whole thing 
weighed, at a guess, twenty pounds. 
I touched each of the three black 
balls with my fingers. All tangible, 
actual, of some material I did not 
know, causing a sensation in my fin- 
gertips like nothing I had ever ex- 
perienced. 

“Somehow,” I muttered, “we’ve re- 
versed a natural process. But what 
have we constructed? It isn’t metal, 
wood, plastic. . .1 don’t know what it 
is.” 

I turned to the two assistants. I 
held my hand over one of the balls. 
I told Baird to hold one, Partos the 
third, to keep them from crashing to 
the floor, if they were free in their 
pocket, when I inverted the black 
tray. 

Each of us held one of the black 
balls. Without looking, I placed the 
tray, with its three “pockets” on ray 
chair. I didn’t turn and look at Joe 
X. I sensed that he was watching. 
What did his “brainless” brain see in 
all this? I am frank to admit that I 
had no idea what we had done with 
my zranthon-ray tube, my zranthon 
field, and the strange brain of Joe X. 
Our real investigations began right 
here; we must find out. We might 
have something useful, something 
dangerous, something utterly with- 
out value. But we bad manifested it. 

f WAS AWARE of a peculiar hap- 
pening. I moved, apparently with- 
out my own volition. Baird moved, 
his eyes popped on the ball held up 
in both hands. Partos moved. All 


18 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


three of us halted and I noticed that 
the three balls, as held by us, were 
now in the same relative position to 
one another as they had been when 
first seen inside the field. 

But were they? What made me 
think this? I could see no differences 
between them. They were black-ball 
triplets, a quick visual examination 
indicated. I was trying to make too 
much of a mystery out of them. But 
I called the assistants’ attention to 
the fact I have mentioned. 

Deliberately then we shifted posi- 
tions. 

“Put the balls down on the floor !” 
I commanded. 

We bent together, placed the balls 
carefully, holding them a few sec- 
onds to make sure none of us impart- 
ed impetus to any one of them. Of 
their own accord, then, they rolled, 
halted. . .in the same relative position 
they had been when first seen on 
the tray in the field ! 

There was still no reason to believe 
anything more than that of their own 
natural accord they rested in the 
form of an equilateral triangle, like 
water seeking its natural level. The 
balls still had no individuality. 

I picked up one. Partos took one. 
Baird took the third. We separated 
by many feet, held the three balls 
high, allowed them to drop. I dis- 
tinctly heard all three balls drop. 
They hesitated for a moment after 
they landed. Then they began to 
roll, to converge on one another. 

They came close together, paused, 
moved this way and that as if 
maneuvered by invisible hands — came 
to rest a second time in the shape of 
a black triangle ! I thought, then, of 
turning to look at the tray on which 
they had manifested, at Joe X sit- 
ting inside the field. The black tray, 
with its empty pockets, seemed to 
be laughing at me, showing toothless 
black gums. 

Joe X just sat. There were now no 
other images in the field. We three 
closed on the black balls, lifted them. 
They had been dropped, had made 
sounds. . . . 

“The floor made sounds, not the 
balls!” I told Baird and Partos. “Do 
either of you have any idea what 


these balls are made of?” 

“No!” they told me together. The 
balls seemed to be perfectly round, 
without blemish of any sort. I took 
time to examine each of the three. 
And dropping them on the floor 
hadn’t so much as scratched one of 
them. Rolling in the dust which was 
never entirely absent from my Inbo- 
ratory, had left no dust on any of 
the three. 

The balls had an eerie lustre of 
their ov/n. I could not see into any 
of the three, nor did any one of them 
reflect my face. I suspected that they 
did not absorb or reflect light. 

I placed a ball in the hand of each 
of my assistants, kept one. 

“Find out v.diat you can about them 
for two concentrated hours!” I com- 
manded. They fell to v/ith a will. So 
did I. I started first with my own 
hydraulic press. I shoved a ball into 
it, applied the pressure slowly at 
first. Nothing happened that I could 
see. The press touched the ball and 
stopped, literally, completely. Noth- 
ing I had ever before pressed so had 
failed to “give.” Nothing could. But 
the ball did. Even the most exacting 
vernier reading, before and during, 
indicated no difference. Maximum 
pressure was sixty-three thousand 
pounds. 

The black ball, of unknown — as 
yet — material, was totally unaffected 
by the pressure. It was impossible. It 
was also true, unless. I was seeing 
things. 

And this ball came out of some 
eerie combination of Joe X’s brain, 
the zranthon-ray tube, and my theo- 
ries — working on the wild idea of a 
member of the “lunatic fringe!” 

I took the ball out of the hydraulic 
press. 

I examined it with my best micro- 
scope. 'Sixty-three thousand pounds 
of pressure hadn’t so much as 
smudged it, or left a rough place on 
it I could feel with my fingers — or 
find with my most precise microm- 
eters ! 

It seemed to be a huge pupil-less 
black eye, staring at me, unblinking. 
I was almost afraid to stare back. 

This thing had come somehow out 
of the brain of Joe X. I thought what 


TRIN 


19 


would happen to his poor head, with 
the mark o£ trephining all the way 
around it, if I were to put the skull 
under the press and start applying it. 
It would crack like an eggshell at 
far less than the pressure applied to 
the black ball. Yet somehov/, by 
thought, Joe X had produced it. 

I had been seeking to show thought 
images, electrically manifested 
spooks if j'ou v/ill. I had never 
dreamed of producing form, certain- 
ly not spheres, trays, pockets in 
metal trays, triangles. 

I let the ball rest for a moment, 
put the tray into the hydraulic press. 
I could do ‘nothing with the tray, 
nothing. It seemed to be of the same 
material as the three balls. I tossed 
it aside. I caught up the ball again, 
as it was rolling toward the balls 
held by Baird and Partos, attempting 
to take position again, I knew. 

I lighted a Bunsen burner, held 
the ball over the flames with a pair 
of tongs. No smudge appeared on 
the ball. Moreover the flame, when it 
touched the ball, stopped. It didn’t 
penetrate, did not spread, and there 
was no slightest suggestion of soot! 

I withdrew the ball, v/etted my 
forefinger v;ith saliva, touched the 
ball ■where the fire had touched it. 
I need not have been afraid of burn- 
ing. The temperature had in no way 
been altered by the flame from the 
Bunsen burner ! 

I thrust the ball into my beer 
refrigerator, left it for half an hour, 
while I watched the frantic efforts 
of Baird and Partos to rnar, smudge, 
scratch or shatter the other 
black bails. Then I removed the ball 
from the refrigerator. Its response 
to extreme cold v/as the same as to 
heat — nil! 

URING those two hours we 
smashed those three balls to- 
gether. V/e flung them at the walls. 
We operated on them with diamond 
drills. We dropped them into a vat 
of acid that came as close to being a 
universal solvent as anything so far 
produced. The effect was — none! V/e 
dropped all three balls into the vat 
at the same time, watched them roll 
into position, form the inevitable tri- 
angle. 


I began to wonder about the trian- 
gle. So did the other two. We tried 
something. I pasted a green one-cent 
stamp to one ball, a red two-cent 
scamp to a second, a blue three-cent 
stamp to a third. Then we allowed 
the balls to form their triangle, took 
measuirements. 

The triangle formed was always 
definitely equilateral, each side 
23.973-plus inches long! We experi- 
mented a score of times. The triangle 
aiw'ays formed in the same way, ex- 
actly. The ball bearing the green 
stamp always took a position which 
would have placed it directly on a 
due north-south line. A perpendicu- 
lar drawn from the center of a line 
connecting the other two balls, ex- 
tended northward, would have passed 
directly under the center of the 
green-stamp ball. 

V/hy? 

V/hat was the significance of the 
triangle? Of the three balls? What 
eerie force, acting outside the field 
which had brought them into visible 
actuality, pulled them back into the 
triangular shape when they were 
free? V/hy did nothing we did to 
them effect them in the slightest? 

But wait a moment, the stamps 
stuck to them! As if in answer to 
the thought, the stamps fell off! 

V/e had exhausted our ingenuity 
for a moment. W^e had done every- 
thing we could to smash, mar, 
smudge, shatter or smear the three 
black balls. Nothing had happened. 
We stood above the triangle, staring 
dov/n. 

As if our concentration were an 
awaited signal, as if The Moment 
had come, all three balls rolled about, 
each about its own apex of the tri- 
angle, with a startling eccentricity, 
considering that they were perfect 
spheres. They v/obbled! hadn't 

altered the shape of any of the three. 
Now, apparently, something had! 

But what? 

We bent, lifted the black balls. 

I discovered the odd bars on the 
surface of the ball I held. Baird ex- 
claimed. Patros swore. There were 
odd bars on each of the three balls. I 
couldn’t see the bars in the one I 
held, because they were merely up- 



20 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


raised ebony. But they formed a tri- 
angle on the surface of the ball, a 
triangle which my fingers told me 
was equilateral, later proved correct. 
The same measurement proved that 
a perpendicular drawn from the ex- 
act center of either of the three sides 
to the opposing angle, the junction 
of the other two sides, was exactly 
3.769 inches long! 

Each ball was exactly the same 
size. Each triangle on the face of 
each sphere was the same through- 
out ! 

Out of the zranthon field, then, 
had come three exact measurements — 
those of the triangle formed by the 
balls in relation to one another, the 
three triangles on the surfaces of the 
three balls, and the sizes of the three 
balls. 

These mathematical facts must 
have some meaning. 

I had not the slightest idea what 
it could be. Neither, I realized, had 
Baird or Partos. 

No three men had ever been more 
enthusiastic for investigation. 

We went to work on the small tri- 
angles with our fingers — as if they 
had been the dials of ebon safes. 

CHAPTER IV 
WHITHER PARTOS? 



INCE MY experiments for 
years had been with mentality, 
with thoughts, I could scarcely 


have picked a better assistant than 
Joe X. He was the supreme- egocen- 
tric. Since he had been very little he 


had been anti-social. All his thoughts, 
feelings, emotions, had turned in- 
ward, to a complete absorption in 
aeJf. His life was almost entirely 
mental. It had been so for almost his 
entire twenty-five years. If his back- 
ground had really been what he must 
often have feared, if he had been, 
were, illegitimate, his mother’s men- 
tal and spiritual turmoil must have 
had its effect on him in his infancy. 

He was perfect for my purposes. I 
knew that with his help I would 
discover the facts about the mental 
screen the lunatic fringer had fore- 
seen for man, when he should have 
advanced, far in the future, to a 
place beyond anything yet known. 

I began to form some queasy sus- 
picions about Joe X; suspicions 
which nevertheless filled me with ex- 
citement. 

These black balls were in our 
hands via the mind of Joe X. I did 
not for a moment believe him mind- 
less in spite of what I had seen in 
the field with reference to his “oper- 
ation.” He could have made that for 
me, deliberately, to bolster his own 
story of his past. 

Joe X seemed to know everything 
— why did he not know, why was he 
kept from knowing, that he was a 
trin? 

I liked mystery, but was never sat- 
isfied until I had solved it, and the 
more abstruse the better. 

There had been no bumps, cer- 
tainly no raised triangles, on the 
three black balls. Now there were. 
Their number had significance. 
Three balls. Three triangles. Three 
sides of each triangle the same 
length. The balls themselves natural- 
ly rolling to a position forming a 
larger triangle. 

Here was a means of communica- 
tion grown out of another, far in 
the future, means of communica- 
tion. 

I fetched a small table, set the 
tray in its exact center. I , took the 
north-ball position, placed. Baird to 
my left near the second ball, Partos 
to my right near the third ball. 

“We’ll experiment on something 
new in Chinese checkers,” I said. 
“I’ll keep track. This is the way safe- 


TRIM 


21 


crackers of real skill find the com- 
binations of safes. They keep elimi- 
nating. Now, raise your hands above 
the black balls. Your left hands, 
since I must use my left, my right 
being occupied by a pencil and pa- 
per.'’ 

They obeyed me, first moving the 
balls in the tray pockets until an 
apex of each equilateral triangle was 
directly opposite each man’s chest. 

''Now, with your left thumb,” I 
said, “press on the left side of your 
triangle. Run your thumb up and 
down, back and forth. Twist. Keep 
working it until I tell you to stop — 
just the one side !” 

We all did the same. I wrote down 
what we were doing, to avoid future 
duplication of effort. Nothing hap- 
pened that we could see. 

“Now, use your thumb on the right- 
hand side!” 

This we all did. I made the rec- 
ord. 

“Now, thumb on right side, fore- 
finger on left side. Twist, press, run 
your thumbs and forefingers up and 
down t” 

Still nothing happened. Three 
black eyes seemed to stare and 
glare at me, to mock me utterly. I 
felt like a fool, but in working v/ith 
the human mind — and what else is 
there — one often does. 

“Press both thumb and forefinger 
on the base of your triangle as if 
you were operating a telegraph key !” 

That produced nothing, either. 

I tried every combination of which 
I could think, carefully recording 
each one. In every possible W’ay we 
twisted, pulled and hauled on the 
three triangles. In an hour we were 
sv/eating from head to foot. Then I 
called for time cut, copied off what 
we had so far done, gave each man 
a slip, turned them loose to experi- 
ment as they saw fit. I could think 
of no fresh combinations of three. 

LL THE time Joe X sat in the 
zranthon field as if in a caty- 
leptic state. I wondered if he were 
conscious of all did. 

Were we, with all our blundering, 
actually twisting and turning the 
brain of Joe X? The thought gave 
me the shudders. I had applied the 


hydraulic press, we had smashed the 
things to the floor, against walls, 
worked diamond drills on them, 
dropped them into acids. And yet, if 
we actually were taking liberties 
v/ith some strange offshoot of the 
brain of Joe X, could v/e be shocking 
it any more than life had so far 
shocked Joe X himself? It occurred 
to me that the human brain, even the 
one eighth part which science 
claimed to know a little about, was 
about the toughest thing in exist- 
ence. Even insanity didn’t harm it 
mucli. 

I was looking at Dan Partos when 
it happened, but I couldn’t for the 
life of me detail just what occurred. 
Partos swore, became impatient. He 
raised his right hand high, brought 
it down, palm flat, against the tri- 
angle on his black ball. That action 
was one I hadn’t thought of, though 
it was the most obvious of all. 

I think I saw Partos’ palm contact 
the triangle. I wouldn’t swear that it 
actually touched. There was no time 
involved. I saw the palm, swiftly 
descending, driven by Partos’ anger, 
frustration and impatience — and 
Partos no longer existed! That’s 
what I said. His chair was empty ! 
It was as if he had never even been 
there. I stared at the ball he had 
slapped. Nothing had happened to 
it. Baird looked at me with some- 
thing utterly queer in his face. Then 
he felt in the empty chair for Partos. 
His hand played through the space 
which Partos had occupied. It en- 
countered nothing he could, in any 
way, feel- 

Partos was not! 

The first expression of macabre 
humor then came from Joe X, out 
of the zranthon field. An eerie 
chuckle came, unmistakably, from 
the lips of the man w’hose mind we 
v/ere using in this series of experi- 
ments. Wc had no idea where Partos 
was. 

Baird slid into Partos’ chair, stared 
at the black ball. 

“It’s smooth again,” he said softly. 
“The triangle is gone!” 

I stared at my own black ball. It 
still had the raised bars, the perfect 
triangle. Baird, his face white as a 


22 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


sheet, slid back into his own chair, 
stared at the third ball. It bore the 
bars which formed the perfect tri- 
angle. Only Partos’ ball was smooth 
again, as if his slap had driven the 
raised portions back into the ball. 
But we knew that sixty-three thou- 
sand pounds of pressure could not 
do that, for we had had one of the 
balls, triangle uppermost, in the 
press. Not the slap, but the combina- 
tion, had altered Partos’ black mar- 
ble! 

“Dollars to doughnuts,” croaked 
Baird, “Partos dived right inside the 
black ball !” 

Joe X answered that, to my star- 
tlement. 

“No! He’s in the room, unhurt!” 

Joe X was again the topflight liar. 
We could see everywhere in the 
laboratory, and Partos simply wasn’t 
anywhere. He was as big a man as 
Joe X, could not be hidden, any more 
than he could have been compressed 
into the black ball. 

Just the same, Baird and I rose 
and began hunting for Partos. We 
looked in the most unlikely places. 
He wasn’t anywhere. 

One place, the only one we could 
not search, was the only spot left : 
the zranthon field. We had never 
so far been able to enter it. 

“He’s inside the field,” I said, “but 
he’s not a mental image. The field 
shows only the mental image. The 
b^l must have provided some chan- 
nel into the field, since it came out 
of it.” 

T he obvious thought came to 
me, making my heart stop. There 
was only one way to be sure and I 
doubted if I had the nerve to try it. 
It was like volunteering to die to 
find out what happened during 
death, v/ith only someone’s theory to 
make you feel secure that there v/as 
a mechanical return available. 

I stared at Baird. His face was at 
least as white as mine must be. V/e 
didn’t have to exchange words to 
understand that the same thought had 
struck both of us. I could volunteer 
to go hunting into the invisible, or 
into the field, but that would leave 
Baird alone outside, lacking my 


meager knowledge of the attributes 
of the zranthon-ray tube. I could not 
go and leave Baird. 

I could not send him, deliberately, 
not knowing how to return him. I 
could not rely too much on Joe X, 
v/hose brain had produced the in- 
comprehensible black balls, the 
series of triangles, one of which had 
disappeared now with Dan Partos. 

“Both Plato and Socrates,” I had 
read somewhere, “required students 
who wished to master philosophy to 
take courses in pure mathematics. 
Both great teachers regarded math- 
ematics as the correct introduction 
because cold reason was needed in 
all solutions, which could in no wise 
be effected by emotion.” 

The black balls, the main triangles, 
the small triangles, were symbols, 
signals, code! But try and prove it! 

“If something happens to us,” I 
said, as Baird and I faced each other 
across the remaining two balls on 
which the raised triangles appeared, 
“Joe X, Carse Ryal Smith, will be 
all right. He can exit from where he 
is at will!” 

“I wasn’t thinking of him,” said 
Baird quietly, firmly, “but of my 
friend Dan Partos. I’m afraid, but 
wherever he is, he may need my 
help. Let’s go!” 

We held up our palms to begin the 
slap. It was like a mutual salute. We 
looked down at the balls so as not to 
miss. We held our breaths as our 
hands went down, struck the two 
balls. 

There v/as no effect whatever! 

The combination which had 
worked for Partos did not work for 
either of us. The balls, then, were 
individual. Each was different from 
the other, though in no way v/e 
could yet explain. Yes, there was 
now an explainable difference; our 
tv/o balls bore the triangles, Partos’ 
big marble did not. But much good 
did the knov/lcdge do us! 

Yet in the smooth ball and perhaps 
the two triangled black spheres was 
hidden the mystery of the disappear- 
ance o£ Dan Partes. It nested also, I 
felt sure, in the brain of Joe X. 

“Where is he?” I asked Joe X. 

“It has to be a matter of record to 


TRIN 


23 


be worth anything,” said Joe X. 
**There is an experiment which will 
show it. It must be made. Otherwise 
it remains the figment of your mind, 
my mind, and the zranthon-ray tube’s 
diffusion of the two together!” 

That really made a lot of sense, 
didn’t it? 

“We’ve got to try again with both 
balls,” said Baird. We sat down to it. 
We went over the combinations 
again. Both of us twisted the balls 
in their pockets, altering the loca- 
tions of the apices — and crashed our 
palms down on them, to no effect. 
We twisted the tray around. We did 
everything, and nothing was of any 
use. 

F inally we set the two barred 
balls aside and concentrated our 
attention on the smooth one. After 
all Jt had figured somehow in the 
disappearance of Dan Partos. 

We got nowhere. 

‘T wish it were small enough to 
swallow!” said Baird in exasperation. 
“Or that I had a big mouth!” 

“The only way we can consume the 
ball,” I said, “is by doing it mentally. 
After all, it’s a thought-form! We 
can try.” 

We placed the ball on the table 
between us, pushing aside the tray 
which held the other two balls. We 
stared into it, or af it, since one 
could not see into it. I don’t know 
what Baird did, but I tried to enter 
into the ball, to become one v/ith its 
secret, to merge with it. I blanked 
out everything else, and for some 
minutes several queer things hap- 
pened. I found myself sv/imming in 
mountainous seas. I had been, I knew, 
torpedoed. It was so real I could 
have yelled in terror, if the shining 
figure hadn’t stood upon the water 
beside me and told me I was not to 
die. I was picked up by a British 
destroyer, and that v/as also very 
real. 

I began to realize that if I could 
“hold a thought” with this ball as 
the center, I could participate in the 
life of Joe X. I could test the truth 
of his stories, could experience his 
experiences, all written indelibly on 


his subconscious, whence the balls 
and tray had come. I deliberately 
switched to the orphanage, and found 
myself hanging by a stout rope. 
Again the shining figure, and I was 
literally cut down. 

I would know, now, about the 
missing two trins. . . . 

It did not seem possible that Joe 
X should be in ignorance of them. 
Nor was he ! He knew, but did not 
know that he knew. The two broth- 
ers-in-one-birth were part of Joe X, 
but he had never consciously known 
of them, as so carefully had his past 
been hidden from Joe X, he had 
never suspected with his outer i«iind. 
But it was utterly impossible to 
separate from one another, complete- 
ly, three who had lain together in 
the womb. 

Excitement grew in me. 

The three black balls were, in some 
eerie fashion, Joe X himself and his 
brethren! The desire on Joe X’s part 
to sluff off life grew out of his in- 
ability to rejoin his trin brothers. He 
did not know of them, only that 
something was missing from him, 
from his spiritual inner, which he 
felt he would never find. 

Where were those two brothers? 
I sought the answer, while concen- 
trating on the black ball, in the 
orphanage, somewhere out west. I 
got nowhere. They had never been 
in the orphanage which had had 
charge of Joe X. I had to go back 
beyond that in time, but could not, 
because Joe X had never been back 
beyond that — as far as his brethren — 
during his conscious life. 

I began to realize that the tray had 
a bleak, sinister, fearful meaning! 
Normally, it held the black marbles. 
It must also hold their secrets! 

Had Joe X hated his mother? Was 
that why the tray was black? 

I was deeply involved in these and 
other absurd questions which might 
or might not have meaning, when I 
was jerked back to consciousness of 
my surroundings. 

Joe X, somewhat fearful and re- 
strained, was calling me by name. I 
looked around. Clyde Baird was no 
longer present! 


24 


MARVEL SCIB4CE STORIES 


1 LOST no time clutching the re- 
maining two balls, studying their 
surfaces. Two balls were now en- 
tirely smooth. The Unknown had 
swallowed Clyde Baird as complete- 
ly as it had swallowed Daniel Par- 
tos ! 

I stared at Joe X. 

“Where’s Baird? Did you see him 
go?” 

“I saw him go,” said Joe X. “He 
wasn’t even watching the other two 
balls. He was staring into the smooth 
ball as you were. Without appar- 
ently thinking about it, he put his 
hand aside. He must have touched 
one of the balls in the right way, 
or... I don’t know. He just disap- 
peared.” 

“Where is he?” 

“With Partos!” 

“And where is Partos?” I de- 
manded, my voice utterly shrill with 
my rising terror. 

“Baird and Partos are the an- 
swers to your experiment, over in 
the back of the book,” said Joe X. 
“You could get the answers from 
me, perhaps, but the method of at- 
taining them would remain forever 
unknown. You have to work it out!” 

“I need help, plenty of help,” I 
complained. “But I can’t keep get- 
ting assistants from other labora- 
tories, to have them vanish without 
trace. What am I going to say to 
their employers when they don’t 
show up, anyway?” 

“They must show up,” said Joe 
X. “We must find them, restore 
them to here! Somehow, I must help 
you. I don’t see how, but we can ex- 
periment. I can always return to the 
field if things don’t go right, and 
you’ll be no worse off than you now 
are !” 

Joe X stepped down from the 
easy chair, pushing aside the zran- 
thon armrest. He walked easily out 
of the field to stand beside the 
table with me. He stood there, study- 
ing the three balls. Just so, I 
thought, a man might stare at his 
own brain if by some weird necro- 
mancy it could be removed, the man 
remain alive to stare! 

One thing I had to get set right 
now. I had to give us plenty of time. 
I couldn’t have the laboratory which 


had sent Baird and Partos, bringing 
police in on us. How could we ex- 
plain the inexplicable? Not even the 
most enlightened cop was going to 
listen very long to my story of the 
zranthon ray while two young ex- 
GI’s v/ere obviously missing. They’d 
take the laboratory apart, cart Joe 
X and me off to jail. 

That I knew, would spell catas- 
trophe. 

I telephoned the laboratory, ex- 
plained somewhat haltingly that I 
was in the midst of a delicate ex- 
periment and would need the ser- 
vices of Baird and Partos for at 
least seventy-two hours more, per- 
haps even longer. 

The director of that laboratory, 
with whom I was sure I had nego- 
tiated for the services of Baird and 
Partos, answered me with a delicate 
sarcasm — which still had the effect 
of a battering-ram smashed against 
the skull. 

“In view of the fact that, not 
sirM:e I have been this laboratory’s 
director, and that’s been for fifteen 
years, have we had any assistants 
named either Baird or Partos, you 
may keep ’em from now on for all 
of me!” 

Thoughtfully I clicked down the 
receiver, turned back to the table 
where Joe X studied the black balls. 

I studied this strange, unearthly, 
now outre-seeming man with a new 
fascination. He looked like anybody 
else, more or less, his size and shape. 
He appeared a fairly decent sort of 
chap. 

But was he anything whatever 
that he appeared to be, however 
queer or normal? 

CHAPTER V 

BOOTSTRAPS OF JOE X 

J OE X seemed trying his best 
to help me, but ever and anon 
I thought I detected a secre- 
tive smile on his face. I earlv began 
to wonder if he were not in some 
fashion the monster to my Franken- 
stein. A tremendous change had 
taken place in him, caused, I 
thought, by his lengthy immersion 
in the zranthon field. 


TRIN 


25 


After Joe X came out of the field 
I tried to enter it, just to discover 
if his emergence changed it in any 
way. It did not. The field remained. 
I returned to Joe X, busily hunting 
the way to the solution of my basic 
problem. I had proved to my own 
satisfaction that the mental screen 
was possible, not in some future age. 
but here and now. Future ages might 
produce people naturally endowed 
with the Mreen; I’d settle for it as 
a mechanical thing which men could 
sell — like telephones, radio, televi- 
sion. 

I sat down across the table from 
Joe X, who was handling the black 
balls, staring at them almost stupid- 
ly. The man appeared to be hypno- 
tized still. 

Immediately after the disappear- 
ance of Baird, but one of the three 
balls had been distorted by the 
raised triangle. Now I took all three 
from Joe X’s hand, to discover that 
all three were utterly smooth! 

How did it happen that the third 
triangle was no more, as if its mis- 
sion had been accomplished, and no- 
body had disappeared? There had 
been no change at all, except that 
Joe X had stepped out of the field! 
Was that the reason? 

Hitherto Joe X had seemed utter- 
ly brilliant. Now I was not so sure. 
He could have been a moron coming 
out of a coke jag. 

“How do you like the zranthon 
treatment, Joe?” I asked. 

He seemed not to hear me at first. 
Then he stirred, looked up at me. 
His tongue must have been as furred 
as his mind, because it was almost 
impossible to understand him when 
he answered : 

“Zranthon? Zranthon? What’s 
that?” 

Yet prior to going into the field 
he had told me, its inventor, all 
about it. What had happened to the 
man, anyv/ay? 

I stared at the big black marbles 
and wondered even more. The eerie 
lustre seemed to be going out of 
them. They had hitherto seemed 
alive. Now I scarcely knew what 
to think. Good pearls come to life 
on the neck of a vivacious, beauti- 
ful woman. Lying shut away in a 


drawer they lose their appearance of 
life. These huge black “pearls” were 
doing the same thing. They almost 
seemed to be dying\ 

“I don’t know what’s happening 
to them,” I said to Joe X. “We did 
all we could to destroy them. Noth- 
ing v/orked. Now that you are out 
of the field, they’re dying. When 
we put top pressure on them....” 

Joe X seemed not to hear me at 
all. He was holding one of the balls 
in his right hand. Whether in an- 
swer to my statement, never com- 
pleted, about applying pressure, or 
as a reflex action of his own, I don’t 
know, but Joe X closed his hand on 
that ball. It shattered in his grip. 
It didn’t break like an eggshell. It 
didn’t crack, or rupture; it shat- 
tered! 

Without looking up at me Joe X 
dribbled the ashen remains of the 
ball into the tray pocket whence 
he had lifted it. It overflowed the 
pocket about enough to prove to 
me that it had been a solid. There 
was nothing inside it different from 
what I had seen outside. The ashes 
of the black ball were as black as 
the ball had been. 

Joe X reached for the second ball. 
I was afraid, for he was a powerful 
man, mentally disintegrating before 
my eyes. 

“No, Joe,” I said. I expected him 
to react violently, maybe even at- 
tack me, try to kill me. His brain 
was struggling with some problem I 
could not reach. I remembered his 
statement that he had something in- 
side his head in lieu of a brain, the 
brain being kept alive in far-off 
Shanghai. Was the substitute now 
deteriorating? Was Joe X dying 
mentally, even as the black balls 
were dying? 

I feared so, but I was going to 
take risks. There was so much I did 
not know. How his money was re- 
plenished, for one thing — if it was ; 
what brought about his “lapses” and 
how he traveled while they lasted. 

I knew, considering his obvious 
and continuing deterioration, that I 
was violating no secret with my next 
statement. 

“You are a trin, Joe, did you know 
that?” 


26 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


He didn’t lift his head. He mere- 
ly stared at the ashes of the black 
ball he had crushed. 

“Carse Ryal Smith,” I said. 

He raised his head, looked at me 
with eyes as lacklustre as the black 
marbles. 

“You are a trin,” I said. “You 
have two brothers, did you know 
that?” 

“Of course,” he muttered, as if 
someone else were speaking for him. 
“We all have two brothers, or two 
sisters. One is Yesterday, one is 
Self, one is Tomorrow! We always 
seek them. We never find them. 
That is why we are always empty, 
sad, unsatisfied, resentful, hating — 
we are never whole! Fate keeps us 
forever incomplete. But I had hoped 
when I came to you . . . . ” 

H e lost track of the thread 
of his speech then, could not 
find it again. It was as if someone 
had shut him off, kicked his shins 
under the table lest he reveal too 
much. What he said, if there were 
any sense in it, opened up a whole 
new realm of investigation to me. It 
seemed fairly obvious that a man 
lived in his present and his past, 
looking forward to the future — usu- 
ally for some utopian perfection for- 
ever moving away ahead of him. Was 
this what Joe X meant? Was this 
the meaning of the esoteric state- 
ment that man was triune and time- 
less? 

I shook my head, casting off the 
cobwebs spun by the limatic fringe 
of whom I had read too much. A 
man couldn’t put his past or his fu- 
ture on the scales and read it. Only 
the psychologist and psychiatrist 
could analyze a man’s past, and who 
could prove v/hether they were right 
or wrong? 

I set Joe X’s remarks down for 
the babblings of a brain unguided, 
unsparked, last words poured out of 
it like last drops poiired from a wa- 
ter bottle. 

Joe X forgot the ashes of the one 
ball, forgot the other two balls. He 
rose from the chair, as if he were 
lifting a tremendous weight. He 
wasn’t fat, didn’t look any older, but 
he moved as if he weighed many 


times a hundred and eighty, and were 
an octogenarian. It was most 
strange. On top of that the other 
two balls were becoming of no in- 
terest whatever. . They were almost 
dead. Now I could crush one my- 
self, I thought. I did it, just to as- 
sure myself. 

Then I crushed the third ball. I 
don’t know exactly why I dumped 
each handful of ashes into the pock- 
et in the tray whence the ball had 
come. 

I took note of the tray. 

It was not changing at all! It 
looked as mocking, as wise, as ever. 
I could almost hear its laughter. 

Joe X had paid no attention to the 
tray. Now Joe X was walking around 
the laboratory. He looked at each 
implement I used in my work. My 
stuff was the last word, and very 
expensive. If I couldn’t buy the best 
I didn’t buy. Joe X lifted various 
items, my microcamera, my micro- 
scope, my calipers, my weighing de- 
vices, my osmotic syntheses, my 
electrolytic jars. He slammed each 
one down afterward while an ex- 
pression of utter contempt touched 
his features. His face was now that 
of an imbecile — what right had he 
to be contemptuous of my topnotch 
equipment? 

“What’s wrong with the micro- 
camera, Joe?” I demanded. 

“Fifteen thousand years behind 
the times!” he said. “Thought form 
of a congenital idiot!” 

That gave me the creeps, for cer- 
tain, though everything the man 
said and did seemed to be a door 
opening. Yet when the door stood 
open I lacked the vision to see be- 
yond it entirely. Just hints, 
glimpses, ideas. I must put them to- 
gether. Then they would be some- 
thing. 

Heavily Joe X walked around the 
laboratory. 

I would have sworn the floor 
sagged sometimes under his weight. 

“Joe,” I said gently, “how long 
has it been since you weighed? How 
about stepping on the scales?” 

Had the zranthon field, building 
itself up to where it operated suc- 
cessfully as a mental screen, so suc- 
cessfully in fact that thought forms 


TRIM 


27 


became material forms, filled Joe X 
himself with material, making him 
heavy beyond any man’s right, men- 
tally and physically? 

Joe X looked around him stupid- 
ly, located the scales, lumbered to- 
ward them. He got up. I was right 
behind him. The urge to boost him 
almost overcame me. I felt he might 
resent it. And he was a mighty man 
at this point, slow though he was. 

T he indicator on the scales 
shot to the limit. There was a 
v/hirring, a crashing sound, and the 
scales were useless! They weighed 
up to an even one thousand pounds. 
Joe X had not been too careful, 
stepping up, yet if he had jumped 
up and down on it he could scarce- 
ly have done the damage he had now 
done merely by ponderously mount- 
ing. 

Joe X got down, look^ed at me, 
then back at his easy chair within 
the zranthon field. 

“Joe,” I said,” where did Baird 
and Partos come from?” 

He snickered. 

“You needn’t worry,” he said, 
“they’re back there!’* 

I thought as much, and I didn’t 
mean by that that they were back at 
the laboratory where I had at first 
been so sure I had got them. 

“Joe,” I pursued my train of 
thought, “may I have all the money 
you have in your pocket?” 

He didn’t hesitate. Ke was slow, 
fearsomely slow and ponderous, but 
he delved into his pocket, came out 
with a worn wallet, tendered it to 
me. I took out all the money it held 
— five worn twenty dollar bills. I 
carefully noted their serial numbers, 
thinking myself a gullible fool as 
I did so, then thrust the bills into 
my pocket, returned the billfold to 
Joe X. 

I kept trying to analyze this new. 
mysterious, stupid Joe X. He was 
bigger than he had been by far, but 
not in size. It was as if his bigness 
extended outward, invisible and in- 
tangible, as if he bore an unseen 
burden. He was taller b}^ far, though 
still but six feet. His voice was the 
same, but blurred, as if it were a 
radio being jammed, as if his tongue 


were thick with anesthetic or numb- 
ness. 

He was a muted dynamo, a power- 
house under the sea, a blanketed 
lightning flash. If ever he were 
freed... but by whom or what could 
he be freed? I sensed that the free- 
ing, and with it a murderous destruc- 
tive devastation, might come at any 
moment. Yet knowing this, feeling 
that certain security was mine only 
while Joe X sat inside the zranthon 
field, I kept putting off the mo- 
ment. 

If this monster who looked just as 
he had, yet didn’t, got out of hand, 
went berserk, I was a dead man. I 
would never solve the secret of the 
disappearance of Baird and Partos. 
I*d never know the complete formula 
for the mental screen, or the secrets 
of the tray, the triangles and the 
black marbles. 

I said, “who took you to 
the orphanage? Did anybody there 
ever tell you?” 

“Nobody took me,” he answered, 
“I just went, I was just there. I 
used to ask. The women always 
looked at one another, scared, but 
nobody ever said. I asked if my 
mother took me. Nobody told me yes 
or no. But they said she was beauti- 
ful/' 

“How did you feel about your 
mother?” I v^ent on. 

“The same as I do now.” 

“How is that?” 

“I hate her completely. If I could 
get my hands on her I would tear 
her apart. She reminds me, when I 
allow myself to think of her, of my 
blackest moments.” 

“And the shining figure in your 
escapes from death,” I pursued. 
“Does she never remind you of your 
mother?” 

“She?” he repeated. “The shining 
figure is that of a man!” 

“Are you sure, Joe? Would you 
listen, even to save your life, if it 
were a woman?” 

He shut up then, refusing to talk 
further. I looked back at the black 
ashes in the pockets in the tray. 
They were as they had been. The 
tray, of all things in the laboratory 
connected with the experiment, re- 
toained unchanged. 


28 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


I had pushed time, and Joe X, 
and destiny, to the last split second 
—in the sacred name of science. 

I said, “you’d better go 
back into the field and sit down. 
We still have work to do.” 

BEDIENTLY the lumbering 
man entered the zranthon 
field. Not until he was inside did I 
realize what a tremendous mental 
feat he had performed. I had not 
been able to do it, else I’d never 
have run that ad, asking for an as- 
sistant. Joe X, quitting the field to 
experiment with his own thought 
forms, to help me, give me hints, 
had actually, in effect, lifted him- 
self by his bootstraps. He had gone 
out and come in at the same time. 
He had risen and dropped at the 
same time. He had spoken and re- 
mained silent at the same time. He 
had done something no human being 
of whom I had ever heard — even the 
“masters” of the esoteric — could do. 

Nor was that all. He sat down in 
the easy chair, closed the third arm. 
leaned tiredly on it. I heard a click 
from the tray, turned. There could 
have been no click. There wss no 
time! 

The three black balls, lustre, life 
and all, reposed in their pockets in 
the black tray. Something, some- 
thing which I could not grasp men- 
tally, for just a moment, had re- 
stored the balls to their ebon per- 
fection from the ashes we had made 
of them! What? “Contact” effected 
when Joe X and the zranthon field 
again became en rapport? 

Out of the field, in Joe X’s nor- 
mal voice, came this: 

“You now have all the elements 
of your mystery, Mr. Lowre,” he 
said. “I can show you no more, ^ell 
you no more! With superhuman ef- 
fort I have told you more than I 
should have — against most impres- 
sive opposition!” 

In a lefthanded way he was ex- 
plaining why he had seemed such 
a lumbering idiot, outside the zran- 
thon field. 

Yes, I had an inkling. But some 
mysteries remained, of which the 
most important were these: (1) who 
were those Tibetan monks in yel- 


low robes? (2) What, actually, was 
the shining figure which seemed to 
stand between Joe X and death? 
(3) Whither had Partos and Baird 
gone? 

I knew the meaning of the tri- 
angles, esoteric as well as scienti- 
fic, but could not put the meaning 
into words, therefore could not 
prove their meaning in this particu- 
lar experiment. 

I needed several things. 

I needed, first, a physical connec- 
tion for the black tray which, 
throughout all this mental maneuver- 
ing, had' not changed in the slight- 
est. 

Leaving Joe X in the field, ap- 
parently recuperating, I left the 
laboratory, the house, repaired to the 
nearest telegraph office, where I 
spent every bit of cash I owned, in- 
cluding the one hundred dollars I 
had taken from Joe X. 

If my theory was correct, my next 
assistant would be a woman, a spe- 
cially selected one! 

I placed these new ads by telegram, 
prepaid. I scattered them somewhat, 
feeling inspired. 

Even as I did so I wondered again 
about Baird and Partos, particularly 
about the telephone call by which I 
had first obtained their services. 
With whom, actually, had I talked? 
Had my selection of that laboratory 
been the whim I had thought it. 

The silly idea came to me: It 
didn*t matter who you telephoned, 
you’d have got Baird and Partos! 

I really believed that; but who 
had them now, and why? 

CHAPTER VI 

ASSISTANT FROM NOWHERE 

W ILL MOTHER OF 
CARSE RYAL SMITH 
KINDLY CONTACT DR. 
CHESTER LOWRE 211X River- 
side Drive, New York City. 

That’s the ad I shipped out to 
fifty newspapers scattered around 
over the United States. How did I 
select the newspapers? Just -as I 
thought I had selected the labora- 
tory which I thought had sent me 
Baird and Partos, I had a feeling 



TRIM 


29 


that if fate intended me to find the 
woman I would find her. She 
would... I had no idea what steps 
she would take. 

Much time must pass. 

‘^We haven’t eaten anything for 
forty-eight hours, Joe,” I suggested. 

could do with something,” he 
said. That soothed me. I half ex- 
pected him to ignore me or say that 
while he was inside the field, busy 
with thinking, he had no need for 
food. I rang for Zack, told him to 
bring food enough for four men. He 
looked around in amazement, shak- 
ing his head. He was always expect- 
ing the unexpected of me. Why was 
I ordering food for four when there 
were obviousely but two of us pres- 
ent? 

“We haven’t eaten for forty-eight 
hours, Zack,” I said lamely, on the 
defensive before my underling. 
“Besides, weTe expecting company.” 

Zack set up a table where I told 
him, just outside the cylinder. He 
never came in contact with it, or he 
would have thrown a fit. But it had 
its effect on him. His hair stood 
straight out from his head like a 
fright wig. He felt it, put his hand 
to his hair, looked at me accusingly. 

“You're always funning with the 
old man,” he said. “Only, you don’t 
look as if it’s any fun!” 

“Zack,” I said, “it isn’t, not a bit!” 

Joe X stood inside the cylinder to 
eat. He wolfed his food. He was 
rapidly becoming the Joe X I had 
studied at the height of his powers 
in the zranthon field. I was hungry 
enough, but nothing compared to Joe 
X. He ate, and ate. and ste! 

When he had done I pushed the 
table back, Joe X returned to the 
easy chair. I studied the tray and 
the black balls, all of them now com- 
pletely smooth. No, now that Joe X 
had returned— what other reason 
could there have been?— the third 
ball showed the black ridges of the 
third and last mysterious triangle. 
When that triangle vanished, with 
Joe X still inside the field, there 
would be some sort, of solution to my 
problem of the future of man — the 
mental screen which would make 
misunderstandings between man and 
man impossible. 


“Joe,” I said, “I want you, if 
you’re strong enough, to form on 
the screen the thought-forms I men- 
tion.” 

“Shoot !” he replied. “I think 
you’re cooking with gas! You’re 
fumbling, but do scientists of this 
day and age ever do anything else?” 

“Should I name what I want to 
see, or merely think it?” 

“Either, but saying it makes it 
easier. Remember, though, what you 
think, and what I think when you 
speak, may be entirely different. 
Then again, Mr. Lowre, you can 
make thoughts on the zranthon 
field, from right where you are!” 

“By holding the balls, one or all 
of them or the tray with balls, in my 
hands?” I asked. “I’ve been wonder- 
ing about that.” 

“There are combinations, always,” 
said Joe X. “Two combinations have 
been operated. They ‘translated’ 
Baird and Partos!” He chuckled,' as 
he had once before, as if he knew 
something so obvious I should know. 

“Let’s leave it for later, Joe,” I 
said. I wanted to work up to some- 
thing gradually, not obviously, so 
that Joe X would not suspect my 
motives. 

“I’m thinking, and picturing in 
my mind,” I said to Joe X, “A wind- 
ing black water stream in Central 
Brazil, the Cururu....” 

I saw the river very plainly as I 
thought it out to him. I thought it 
in detail, and willed him to show it 
on the field. 

E MANAGED a river, but it 
was no river I had ever seen. 
It represented Joe X’s reflection of 
my thought, what he gathered from 
my detailed mental description. Its 
waters were clearly black, because 
I had said black — ^but Joe X had to 
fight mentally to make them black. 
They varied from colorless to light 
green, to blue, to brown, to black. 

“A church,” I said next. I thought 
of a little church I had seen in the 
jungles of Haiti, long ago. I named 
the church, began to describe it. In- 
stantly Joe X thought it forth on 
the mental screen. This time the 
church varied in many details from 
what I remembered of it, but it was 



30 


MARVJEL SCIENCE STORIES 


recognizable as the native church at 
Ounaminthe. 

“That’s scarcely fair, Mr. Lowre,” 
said Joe X. “I’ve visited that identi- 
cal church, within the last year!” 

“Even so, it’s far from the way I 
remember it,” I said. “What I can’t 
understand, as this experiment prog- 
resses, is how we ever manage to 
understand, one another at all. I’m 
accustomed to people reading into 
letters what I never wrote, and ad- 
hering to the meanings even when I 
insisted in person and face to face 
that nothing of the kind was in- 
tended, but now I can comprehend 
why even words of explanation are 
more or less wasted. People simply 
don’t understand one another! 
They’re not supposed to.” 

“Not while they are prevented 
from communicating directly, with- 
out the use of synthetic channels — 
like telephones, words, gestures, 
smiles. When man speaks mind to 
mind there will be no misunder- 
standings. But he must earn his way 
by learningJ*’ 

I shut off his sermonizing by 
shooting a series of words at Joe X. 

“Show me a paxiuba palm tree!” 

He showed me a cocoanut palm, 
vastly different. 

“Now a two foot square of koa 
wood!” 

He showed me a square of mahog- 
any! Even Joe X had to laugh, a 
bit ruefully. 

“Anyway,” he said, “it’s real 
mahogany. Take it out if you want.” 

I didn’t. I erased the thought form 
by substituting another, the only 
way mankind can really exercise 
control over his thoughts. 

“You ‘create’ mahogany, then de- 
stroy it, erase it,” I said to Joe X. 
“I wonder if all the forms we see, 
everyv/here in the v/orld, are man- 
created things which have escaped 
from mental screens?” 

Joe X did not answer. I could tell 
that he v/as v/ondering v/hat I was 
leading up to. He knew that I would 
not be asking questions aimlessly, 
just to kill time. Did he know of the 
telegraphed advertisements I had 
just broadcast? I had told him noth- 
ing of them. 

“Show me a waterspout,” I said 


next. “Now, Niagara Falls! Now, 
the Empire State Building” I gave 
him time only to outline these vari- 
ous things, then spoke others. “Now 
show me a streamlined train! Now a 
Skymaster plane ! Now a set of pool- 
balls, correctly numbered, racked up 
to start the game” he did this one 
quicker than the others, but I was 
pretty certain he didn’t have the 
stripes and colors correct. I wasn’t 
too sure because I couldn’t myself re- 
member! That could well be a flaw 
in communications when the mental 
screen became a commonplace: man 
might very well not know what he 
was thinking about! 

“I’d like to see your shining fig- 
ure again” I tried to make it casual. 
There was a bit of hesitation. I had 
the feeling, though, that it wasn’t 
because of anything suspicious in my 
request. To Joe X the shining fig- 
ure was one to be reverenced, a 
supernatural being of great spiritual 
power and beauty. 

f SENSED, for the first time, 
great struggle, emotions warring 
against emotions, belief against lack 
of it. I saw the shining figure begin 
to take shape as a thought form. 
Then I saw something else: the 
thought form taking charge, help- 
ing Joe X to manifest the shining 
figure. The whole time required to 
bring the shining figure into such 
complete form as to make him seem 
an actual person. My pulse ham- 
mered in my brain. The black balls- 
were real forms, solids, material — 
could the shining figure be real 
also? In Joe X’s past experiences, 
when he had been thwarted of com- 
mitting suicide, when he had been 
saved from drowning, saved from 
death in an airplane crash, Joe X 
could not possibly have produced 
1:he shining figure as a thought-form. 
But what was hallucination but a 
thought-form, a phantasm? 

The shining figure was no phan- 
tasm, I knew when I remembered. 
No phantasm could have pulled my 
stcpladder into the cylinder which 
was the zranthon field. 

The shining figure, if asked, if it 
so elected, could walk out of that 
field and explain itself, in words, 


TRIN 


31 


gestures, expressions! 

But as the form became more 
sharply etched, more material, the 
face became more serious. The shin- 
ing figure did shine, with an un- 
earthly brilliance. That shining did 
not make me think of the phosphor- 
escence from dead things, from the 
tomb; it made me think of what the 
aura should be, if any such thing ex- 
isted. It made me think of the shin- 
ing aureole about the heads of an- 
gels. But there was a light around 
this figure, in the midst of which it 
stood. 

I was going to call the figure by 
name, ask it to step forth from the 
zranthon field and explain itself to 
me. I knew positively that the en- 
tity represented there could answer 
any question about the mental screen 
I could ask. Why? Because, I felt 
sure, the figure knew all about it, 
used it, operated in some plane 
where man did not have to await 
the passage of aeons to possess the 
ability to operate the screen natur- 
ally. 

On the verge of extending an in- 
vitation to the shining figure I came 
to a dead stop, mentally. The figure 
must have read my mind as surely 
as if I were using a mental screen — 
for it shook its head, almost imper- 
ceptibly! It was part and parcel of 
Joe X, but it v/as individual. Joe 
X did not shake the head of the 
shining figure, mentally; the shining 
figure shook its own head! 

Yet there was promise in the 
headshake. The lips shaped words. 
I did not hear the words, was not 
intended to hear them, yet the 
thought was pictured forth in my 
mind in these v/ords: 

“Do not ask me now. It shall hap- 
pen, very soon!” 

Then the shining figure, giving 
me a smile in which I read a weird 
ineffable sweetness, a vast, awesome 
satisfaction — almost as if I were 
somehow bringing about an event 
long hoped for, endlessly deferred — 
vanished from the field, completely. 

“Now, Joe I said, “show me Cle- 
opatra’s needle! Grant’s Tomb! The 
Lincoln Memorial!” 

I stopped right there. Joe X. 
though he had not changed, showed 


me nothing after the disappearance 
from the screen of his shining fig- 
ure. I stared at Joe X. This time 
he touched his ears again. He could 
not hear me. Soon his face took on 
that blank look which told me he 
could no longer see me. This had 
happened before, v/hen something 
had been building up in the mental 
screen. 

What agency v/as building up the 
force? Not Joe X’s mind, not mine. 
I was sure, for I did not think of 
blocking out Joe X from normal 
sight and sound, and I doubted very 
much if it were any idea of Joe’s. 

For two solid hours I waited for 
Joe X to be in communication with 
me again, and it did not happen. He 
just sat there, motionless, as if he 
were solidly frozen in a cake of ice. 

T hus it was when Zack came to 
me, visibly disturbed, to tell me 
that a lady was waiting to see me in 
my almost-never-used reception room 
in the main part of my home. 

“Old, Zack?" I ask-.id softly. 

“I don’t know what to say sij:, ex- 
cept that she doesn’t look like the 
kind that aged!" 

“Beautiful, Zack?" 

“Mr. Lowre,” he said fervently, al- 
most reverently, “she’s something out 
of a picture! She is the most beau- 
tiful woman I’ve ever seen. That’s 
not just my idea as a man. My wife 
says exactly the same thing, in more 
and better words!" 

I glanced back at Joe X. He knew 
nothing of what went on. I followed 
Zack to the sitting room. The woman 
rose to meet me. I went forward, 
took her hand. It was warm, human, 
gentle, perfectly formed. I scarcely 
know how to describe Marya Ma- 
done. You lost yourself, looking into 
her eyes. You couldn't think any- 
thing wrong, looking at her. Her 
face was exquisite. Her hair was au- 
burn. I suppose it was combed, 
dressed somehov/, but I’ll never be 
able to describe it — not until the 
mental screen becomes natural! Yet 
I’ll forget no slightest detail of it. 

“Chester Lowre,” she murmured, 
her voice like a far off singing 
breeze, “I doubt very much if you 
can imagine how I feel! You are 


32 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


making possible a meeting I had 
never hoped would be possible. I am 
afraid. I should not be afraid, I 
know, but I can’t help it.^’ 

She spoke English, with an accent 
I could not place. I knew, at the 
same time, that no philologist, how- 
ever experienced, could place it, 
either, for the very best of reasons: 
this woman’s native tongue was un- 
known to philologists ! But that’s 
getting ahead of the experiment. 

“You are the mother of Carse Ryal 
Smith,’’ I said, making it a state- 
ment rather than a question. She did 
not bother to ansv/er. She knew that 
I knew. 

“I told you v/e should meet again!” 
she smiled, a smile that would go 
with me through eternity. 

“Should Carse recognize you at 
once both as his mother and the 
‘shining figure’ of his experiences, 
Marya Madone?” 

“No! No!” she said. “It would 
never do ! It must be done gradually. 
I shall be Marya Madone with v^hich 
his shining figure gradually and 
naturally merges!” 

“Then you must change more,” 
I said. “Right now the resemblance 
is too close for him to miss! You 
answered one of my ads, of course 
—quite aside from your appearance, 
your warning, and your mental 
promise out of the zranthon field?” 

She laughed softly. “I started the 
instant you made up your mind to 
advertise I I was enroute the mo- 
ment after you put your ad into 
words. There will be many answers 
to it, but it won’t matter.” 

“So!” I said ruefully. “All that 
money went to waste, including the 
hundred dollars I got from Carse 
Ryal?” 

“Nothing good ever goes to waste,” 
she said seriously,” and have you for- 
gotten something about money, with 
reference to my son?” 

“His store of it never diminishes!” 
I said. “Yozi keep him supplied!” 

“A mother’s privilege, but he must 
never know it.” 

“I promise,” I said, “but there is 
something I must ask. ...” 

“About the father of the triplets?” 


she smiled, unruffled. “He has been 
dead fifteen hundred years. Here and 
now, and during the time you have 
lived, he would have to wait fifteen 
thousand years to be born!” 

“Has he lived at all during the life 
of Carse Ryal?” I asked gently. 

“No,” she said, “but Carse is still 
not that which he has all his life 
feared ! It was necessary that he be- 
lieve, or at least suspect, that 'he 
was born out of wedlock. His 
thoughts must turn inward to make 
this experiment not only possible 
but useful! In spite of records to 
the contrary, in that orphanage, 
Carse Ryal Smith was legitimately 
born! But you already knew this, 
Chester Lowre!” 

“I thought I knew, Mayra Madone, 
but knowing and proving are two 
different things! Now I shall prove! 
And your other tv/o sons, Marya?” 

“Do you not knov/ that also, 
Chester Lowre?” she asked, grinning 
as if vastly pleased with herself. 

I told her what I thought and be- 
lieved. 

“Of course,” she said, “what else 
could it possibly be? Nov/, if I can 
change, somehow. ...” 

“I’ll fix it,” I promised. I called 
Zack’s wife. “This is Mrs. Madone,” 
I told her. “She is going to help Mr. 
Smith and me in our laboratory work. 
Will you fix her up in the ordinary 
costume of a nurse?” 

I could think of nothing more dif- 
ferent from Marya Madone’s excel- 
lent, neatly fitting cloth of gold 
garment than the rustling white of 
a nurse’s costume, starched as I 
knew Zack’s wife w'ould starch it. 

“There should be a touch of rouge 
and of lipstick,” I added to Marya 
Madone. “It’s customary.” 

She needed neither one, except to 
hide her own natural exquisite com- 
plexion b}^ v/ay of additional dis- 
guise. 

In less than an hour I conducted 
nurse Madone into the laboratory. It 
was almost impossible for me to 
grasp the fact that in this competent 
looking nurse, clearly interested only 
in her work, was two other people; 
Joe X’s mother, and his “shining 
figure !” 


TRIM 


33 


How could that be, scientUically? 
It was, though, and I knew I 
should, with her hel'p, and Joe X’s, 
prove it to the hilt! 

CHAPTER VII 

AGAIN THE MARBLES 

M ARYA MADONE sat across 
the table from me. Between 
us was the tray. In the 
pockets of the tray were the three 
black balls, Marya Madone watched 
me, but not until she had looked long 
at the still figure in the easy chair 
inside the zranthon field. Such love 
for Joe X looked out of her eyes as 
I could not remember seeing in any 
other woman’s face, ever. 

Marya’s love for her son was limit- 
less. 

I remembered what he had said to 
me, that if he could he would kill 
her; she represented the blackest 
moments in his life. 

"When the tray and the balls be- 
come as white as your light,” I said 
to nurse Madone, “the experiment 
will be completed, is that so?” 

“Yes,” she said softly, “and 
then. ...” 

“Then I shall lose you and Joe X 
as I have lost Baird and Partos!” 

“Nothing once possessed -is ever 
entirely lost,” she said, “and you may 
see us again, somewhere in time. But 
during your life you will see us no 
more — after the tray and the balls are 
completely light T 

“Are you going to explain it all 
to me?” 

“That I am not authorized to do!” 
she said. “It is not given man to 
know the future by abnormal means. 
But if you read the signs given you, 
and interpret them yourself, I can 
agree or disagree v/ithout violating 
the universal law.” 

“Then I shall begin with you/’ I 
said, “since all life begins with the 
mother! It is true that, according to 
time as it is known by me and my 
contemporaries, you will not be born 
for fifteen thousand years yet! Ac- 
cording to your reckoning, there is 
no time !” 


Her smile was radiant. She said 
nothing. But the smile was above all 
encouraging, triumphant. I had 
spoken truly. 

“The black tray,” I went on, “re- 
presents you. It is the mother, as if 
the three pockets were the womb. 
The three black spheres represent 
Joe X and his two brothers, of whom 
I do not'yet know for certain, though 
I feel reasonably sure that, when 
they’re not acting, they don’t in the 
least resemble yellow-robed Tibet- 
ans !” 

Marya Madone threw back her 
head and laughed aloud, a musical 
expression that was more like an em- 
brace than an embrace is. 

“Carse Ryal was very close then,” 
she said, “but the time was not ripe 
that he should know the truth! Go 
on, Chester Lowre. It is desired that 
you have the fullest enjoyment from 
this experiment.” 

“The secret of what is happening 
here and now, including you, Marya 
Madone,” I said, “is partially con- 
tained in Joe X’s 'lapses.’ His most 
amazing ‘lapse’ was one of time — 
fifteen thousand years of time.” 

“Not quite correct,” she said. “You 
can proceed no further until you 
have corrected your formula.” 

“I don’t believe in reincarnation,” 
I stated flatly. 

“It doesn’t matter whether you 
do,” she said, “as long as you have 
the true scientific perspective on 
time !” 

“That, actually, time is an inven- 
tion of modern man, who thus limits 
himself? If that were true, Marya 
Madone, man always lives....” 

“That of which he is composed,” 
she said quickly, “always has been, is, 
always will be. He is eternal, on the 
basis of your own scientific thesis 
that no energy is ever lost. Man is a 
manifestation of energy.” 

Her intriguing accent made me 
pause for a moment. It also had to be 
explained. 

“Up there in the future,” I said, 
“English has been a dead language 
for countless generatiorfs, but noth- 
ing that has ever been, ever dies. 
Even languages do not die, though 
they are buried in human subcon- 


34 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


scious, as if they were! The percep- 
tive, a Marya Madone, can regain 
any ‘lost’ language she needs!” 

She was delighted at this expla- 
nation for her knowledge of English 
and her accent. I was pleased with 
myself. Now and again Nurse Ma- 
done looked at the silent, motionless 
figure of Joe X, her love seeming 
more each time she looked. 

5 WONDERED if the love did it, 
or the thoughts of Marya Ma- 
done, or of whoever had helped her 
get back here in time — but the tray 
and the black balls were slowly fad- 
ing! 

“You were expecting a child,” I 
went on, “twenty-five years ago!” 

“Fourteen thousand nine hundred 
and seventy-five years in the future 
from now!” she corrected me. “Also, 
you have forgotten something of vast 
importance !” 

“You were expecting three chil- 
dren, triplets! You were somehow 
connected with a scientist, an inven- 
tor, a man or v/oman whose curiosity 
probed beyond time and space....” 
I was fumbling, watching her face, 
trying to read whether I was “hot” 
or “cold.” 

Then I took the plunge, “It 
wouldn’t have been your husband, 
would it, the father of the triplets?” 

“It would, indeed,” she said softly, 
“and I only thank whatever powers 
there be that you have solved the 
problem this far. But there is still 
far to go.” 

“In that far-off future day, which 
to you even now is,” I went on, “man 
is endowed at birth with the ability 
to think-forth, to show the picture 
of his thoughts to whomever he 
wishes.” 

“True,” she said. “But not exactly 
the truth. I shall hate it if you are 
disappointed when you knov/ the 
truth of the next step!” 

“Don’t tell me your husband is 
the real inventor of the zranthon-ray 
tube !” 

Quickly she put forth her hand to 
touch mine. I hoped she would never 
take the hand away. 

“Do not feel disappointed, Chester 


Lowre !” she said. “After all, you 
took it from him, brought it here!’* 

“The whole thing, the birth of 
Joe X here was an accident!” I said. 
“Your husband. ...” 

“Ryal Madone,” she said, as if she 
v/ere presenting me. 

“Ryal Madone was working on his 
zranthon-ray tube, conceiving it a 
possible channel by which time 
might be investigated in both di- 
rections, past and future ! At the 
same time he was much concerned 
about the health of his wife! 
Working with the zranthon tube he 
decided on a spot in time, fifteen 
thousand years in the past, at the 
same time as he thought of his wife, 
arid her health. ...” 

Her face was serious, but it was 
telling me to go on, go on. . . . 

“He visioned the past, my time, 
even as he pictured the beauty of 
his beloved wife and was heart-deep 
concerned about her. It was no in- 
tention of Ryal Madone that he 
actually hurl his wife back into the 
past, so that her children be born in 
my time. But that’s what happened I 
Then, though he could restore his 
wife to his time, he could not restore 
his children! He lost them in time. 
He has been trying since then to 
restore the family completely!” 

“And now, thanks to you,” she said, 
“it is coming to pass!” 

I was so eager and excited it was 
easy to miss something important, 
and I knev/ it, intended to do 
nothing of the sort. 

“But the brothers of Joe X,” I 
said. “Joe never knew them or about 
them. Is he the eldest, youngest, 
middle child? Oldest! You were 
restored to your proper time immedi- 
ately after joe X was born — and left 
on the steps of the orphanage out 
West! So Joe X lost brothers, 
mother, father, all at the same 
moment! No wonder he felt lost 
indeed!” 

“But we did not lose him !” said 
Marya Madone. “We were in touch. 
Using the zranthon tube, ...” 

“Your husband thought you forth 
whenever your son was in danger 
of dying!” I ejaculated. “You mani- 


TRIN 


35 


fested as a man, knowing his hatred 
of the mother who had deserted 
him !” 

Now her face was very sad. She 
glanced again at Joe X, showering 
him with love. The black balls were 
definitely lighter now! 

“By inventing the zranthon ray 
in my time,'’ I said, “I began pre- 
paring the channel of reunion....” 

“You must go back further!” she 
hinted. “Back to. . . .” 

OMETHING seemed to silence 
her. I tried to guess. Then I 
tried to work it out mathematically. 
I already had enough hints about 
that, that was certain — the black 
triangles, the big one, the three 
smaller ones. 

“Carse Ryal's attempts to kill him- 
self/’ I went on; “and his narrow 
escapes from death, were subcon- 
scious searches for the way to re- 
union with his lost family. He swal- 
lowed scores of aspirin tablets, hop- 
ing he would waken in the bosom of 
his family. But it wasn’t possible 
that way. There had to be a scientific 
way; there was actually no esoteric 
one. You had to appear to so inform 
him. ...” 

“And waken the women at the 
orphanage,” smiled Marya Madonc, 
“so they would pump out the 
stomach of my very sick son !“ 

“Later on, still seeking a channel,” 
I continued, “he hanged himself. But 
how could you cut him down, since 
you were not material?” 

“Have you so little faith in your 
zranthon tube, which you had not 
yet invented, twenty-five years ago?” 
she asked, laughing a little. “I was 
as material, stepping out of Ryal 
Madone’s zranthon tube, as I am now, 
and I have touched your hand, so you 
know. I touch it again, to reassure 
you !” 

It seemed a little clearer after 
that. 

“All you did when he should have 
drowned,” I said, “was tell him to 
keep on swimming. But I’m afraid 
1 can’t see how he escaped from 
certain death when his plane crashed 
over Tibet!” 

**And it is really the most signifi- 


cant part of the experiment !” she 
hinted. “It leads to the other things, 
right up to the. ...” 

“Me and the zranthon tube !” I 
said. “He came through because he 
had one, the first, of his ‘lapses’ ! 
Actually he wasn’t even in that plane 
when it crashed ! He just thought he 
was! But no, that’s not possible. 
Nobody can make me believe. ...” 

“He came straight to your door 
with a blind ad in his hand, 
remember?” said Marya softly. “You 
believe that, don’t you? 

“Are you trying to tell me that 
your husband’s zranthon tube and 
mine are working in cahoots?” I 
asked. 

She did not answer. She could not, 
or for some reason would not, tell 
me. 

“I can believe it, I guess,” I said 
slowly, “but if you try to make me 
believe that his zranthon tube and 
mine are one and the same ” 

I had to drop it there myself, my 
heart almost stopped beating. I knew 
by her face that the tube which I 
had so proudly invented was actually 
not mine — but belonged to Ryal 
Madone, ages up there in the future. 
He had worked out, with my 
accidental help, something unusual 
in the time machine. 

At this moment I had an eerie 
demonstration of something. Begin- 
ning to perspire, I got out my hand- 
kerchief, or started to. Instead I 
came out with my wallet. On a hunch 
I opened it. Marya Madone began to 
laugh when I drew forth, of all 
things, the five worn twenty dollar 
bills, the same ones, I had left at the 
telegraph office to pay in part for 
ads sent by wire. 

“It’s one of the threads,” she said 
softly. “Nothing can be left out or 
the experiment is a failure.” 

At that moment Zack Hyde 
brought a telegraph messenger. It 
appeared that several newspapers had 
refused to accept the ad, and exactly 
one hundred dollars was being 
returned to me. It was “herewith”, 
the message said. By an odd 
“coincidence” the total was one 
hundred dollars. The messenger boy 
looked scared to death when, fum- 


36 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


bling in his pockets, he could not 
find the money! I could not tell him 
it had preceded him. When I showed 
it to him, however, he went away, 
shaking his head. 

“It’s not counterfeit, either,” said 
Marya Madone, using words Joe X 
had already used to explain the fact 
that he was never broke. I realized 
that his replenishment of funds 
always came about, seemingly, in 
some perfectly normal, business-like 
manner. 

“Formulas for the comprehension 
of time and space are always mathe- 
matical,” I mused. “That’s what the 
code of the triangles was telling me. 
The tray is the mother. The spheres 
are the three trins. I know it, but 
how I know it I am not sure. Marya, 
this is not the Pythagorean Theorem, 
which states that the square of the 
hypotenuse of a right triangle...” 

“None of the four triangles is a 
right triangle!” said Marya Madone 
at once. “Yet you are closer to the 
truth even than Euclid was. I can 
help you no further!” 

“The union of the male and female 
elements,” I fumbled again, “which 
brings about conception of a third 
entity which may be either male or 
female. This is the metaphysical 
symbolism of the Forty Seventh 
Problem of Euclid! That’s why the 
triangles have been used ” 

S CAUGHT my breath as realiza- 
tion came. Marya Madone was 
facing me squarely. I could not 
escape the profound intelligence of 
her eyes. I noted the high white 
purity of her forehead. Instantly my 
mind fixed on a point exactly in the 
center of her forehead, and drew tv/o 
lines from it, slanting to right and 
left so as to miss the deep exoressive 
eyes. They were tv/o sides of a tri- 
angle. I ended them, rnentilly drew 
a third below the eyes — .and I had 
the large triangle in the tray, with 
two of the “marbles” represented by 
the eyes of Marya Madone! The 
third would also have been present 
in the spot of origin, in the center 
of the forehead, if I, as a scientist, 
eould have accepted the idea of 
or “spirit”, which esotericists 


say is located behind the skull at 
exactly that spot. 

I refused to speculate on it. I could 
“see” the symbolism of the triangles, 
and that was enough for me. 

“By the raised triangles on the 
balls, then,” I said to Marya Madone, 
“your husband and I have been in 
communication !” 

“Not exactly!” she corrected me. 
“With them he sought to communi* 
cate with his children !” 

“Baird and Partos!” I exploded. 
“The two Tibetans of the yellow- 
robes, in a silent courtyard in 
Shanghai !” 

“Chester Lowre,” she said softly, 
“I am more pleased with you than I 
shall be allowed to tell you. You have 
almost reached the climax, and the 
answer, of your experiment in 
building, synthetically, the mental 
screen of the distant future! One 
thing remains.” 

“Yes,” I agreed, “it is this: where 
does the operation in Shanghai, the 
brain substitution, fit in? Of course, 
like _ the tray, the triangles, and all 
the- rest, it could be symbolism. But 
I saw the marks of the trephining 
myself !” 

“So many human beings, even in 
my time/* she said softly, “have to 
see to believe. Carse Ryal’s brothers 
actually operated on Carse Ryal — a 
drastic effort to make him take his 
mind off those moods of depression 
which made him think of suicide. If 
he had ever succeeded we should 
have lost him entirely. Also, my 
other sons altered his brain in order 
to exercise some control over his 
‘lapses!’ They also gave him the 
idea of returning to the United 
States.” 

“And through all of this what have 
I been?” I demanded. “Just a stooge? 
Have I bean operating solely under 
direction from your husband?” 

She hesitated a long time before 
she ans^vored that one. 

“Yes,” she said, “but please don’t 
feel too badly about it! The reason 
is inescapable. I may be allowed to 
tell you, somehow, at the end!” 

“Well, then,” I said somewhat 
grumpily, “two things remain ! Pro- 
ducing Baird and Partos, and recon- 


TRIM 


37 


ciling you and your trin son, Carse 
Ryal. But Marya, I just remembered 
something: identical triplets would 
not have different colored hair. 
Partos is a redhead !” 

“And I,’’ said Marya, “thanks to 
your Hattie Hyde, am a nurse! 
Really, Chester sometimes even I 
find you exasperating!” 

“Where are Partos and Baird?” I 
asked. 

“You must work out your own 
experiment,” said Marya Madpne. 

“I think, absurd as it may sound, 
that they are merged with Joe X I” 

“What’s so absurd about it?” asked 
Marya Madone crisply. 

CHAPTER VIII 

IRREPARABLE LOSS? 

O, THERE was nothing 
absurd or unscientific about 
™ the merging of the three 
brothers. Baird and Partos were 
thought forms, thought forth from 
the far future by Ryal Madone in a 
desperate effort to reunite them 
with Carse Ryal Smith, first step 
to a complete family reunion. 

I realized now that Carse Ryal 
Smith himself was a thought form 
which had stepped out of the 
zranthon-ray mental screen twenty- 
five years before — from what to me 
was the distant future ; that very 
same future I was trying to make 
available to my time by invention 
of the mental screen, by using the 
zranthon tube. 

But if Ryal Madone had invented 
it, far up yonder, well, no wonder 
Carse Ryal Smith knew so much 
about it. And since his origin was 
far in the future, what secrets could 
the earth of my time possibly have 
withheld from him? He hadn’t known 
of his parents or his brothers simply 
because they were not of this time. 

Now Marya Madone, a strange 
mixture of sadness and excitement 
in her face, removed the balls from 
the tray. They had become, all of 
them, almost white. Was white 
leally for purity? Did the whiteness 
mean that Joe X’s mother no longer 
reminded him of his blackest 


moments and moods? 

Marya Madone placed the white 
balls on the table between us. She 
handled them as one long accus- 
tomed. They rolled this time not to 
form the big triangle, but close 
together, as if snuggling. 

Marya held the white tray close 
to her breast for a moment, her eyes 
closed almost as if she prayed. Then 
she moved to the zranthon-ray field, 
offered the tray to the field at ap- 
proximately the same place and 
height as I had brought it forth 
when it had been black. The field 
received it, took it inward I 

The white tray stood there, several 
feet above the floor of my laboratory. 
Marya Madone studied it. 

"What follows,” she said, “is not 
compulsory on my part or that of 
my sons. But you have had so much 
to do with this reunion that the 
family is grateful beyond words. 
Therefore he wishes you to know I 
It wishes you to know all I” 

The white tray began to dim, to 
diffuse, apparently to mingle with 
all the zranthon field. But the 
change, the transmutation, whatever 
it was, was speedy. First, faces and 
heads began to appear, grinning — the 
faces of Baird and Partos, both heads 
with black hair! I looked at Joe X. 
On his face was an expression of 
ineffable content. 

Marya Madone stared at Joe X. 

“He already knows and accepts me, 
Chester I” she murmured. 

Somehow, perhaps with the help of 
his brothers, perhaps with the help 
of his "shining figure”, or the help 
of his far-off-future father, Joe X 
had been kept abreast of our con- 
versations since the arrival of Marya. 

Baird stepped out of the zranthon 
field, moved to his mother, took her 
hands, dropped to one knee : 

“Mother!” he murmured. Then he 
turned to me. “It’s the same word in 
our language!” he said. 

Now came Partos, to kneel beside 
his brother. Even so, the eyes of 
Marya Madone were fixed on Joe X, 
who now rose from the easy chair, 
pushed the armrest, the zranthon 
tube, away determinedly, walked to 
(Please turn to page 127) 


THE CATAAAA 


by 


A. E. 

VAN VOGT 


A Little Classic By One Of The Most Brilliant 
I Science-Fiction Writers Of Our Day. 

Several years ago fhis startling story appeared in a ^ ' 

Los ^fige^es publication, FANTASY BOCK, oiid it 
immediately created a furor among the local sif 
faithful* With the resumption of felARy^i, we 
thought it should be brought to a larger audh::ce, 
particularly since its author has meantime won 
recognition as one of America's most brJUiant 
science-fiction writers. We think you'll agree 
that "The Cataaaa" is a masterpiece. 



J'^HE USUAL group was gather- 
ing in the bar. Cathy was al- 
ready pretending she was far 
gone. Ted was busy putting on his 
stupid look. Myra giggled three 
times the way a musician tunes his 
instrument for the evening. Jones 
was talking to Gord in his positive 


Tha cat turned and 
fouctiad Sifitey's 
fac® gently. 

fashion. Gord said ‘'Glub!” every few 
seconds, just as if he was listening. 
And Morton tried to draw attention 
to himself by remaining aloof and 
intellectual looking far down in his 
chair. 

No one noticed the slight, slim 
man sitting on a stool before the bar. 
The man kept glancing at the group; 
but just when he joined them, or who 
invited him, no one had any clear 
idea. Nor did it occur to anyone to 


38 


THE CATAAAA 


39 


tell him to go away. 

The stranger said, "You v/ere talk- 
ing about the basic characteristics of 
human nature — " 

Myra giggled, "Is that what we 
were talking about? I wondered.” 

The laughter that followed did not 
deter the newcomer. 

“It so happens that I have had an 
experience which illustrates the 
point. It began one day when I was 
glancing through the newspaper, and 
I ran across a circus advertise- 
ment. . 

At the top of the ad (he went on) 
was a large question mark followed 
by some equally large exclamation 
marks. Then; 

WKAT IS IT? 

IT’S THE CAT 
COME AND SEE THE CAT 
THE CAT WILL STARTLE YOU 

THE CAT WILL AMAZE YOU 
SEE THE CAT AT THE CIRCUS 
FREAK SHOW 

In smaller letters at the bottom 
of the ad was the information that 
the cat was -being "shown under the 
personal direction of Silkey Travis.” 

Until that point I had been read- 
ing with a vague interest and curi- 
osity. The name made me jump. 

"Good lord!” I thought. "It’s him. 
It’s Silkey Travis on that card.” 

I hurried to my desk, and took out 
a card that had come in the mail 
two days before. At the time it had 
made no sense to me at all. The 
words written on the back in a fine 
script seemed pure gibberish, and the 
photograph on the front, though 
familiar, unlocked no real memory. 
It was of a man with a haunted look 
on his face, sitting in a small cage. 
I now recognized it as being a like- 
ness of Silkey Travis, not as I had 
known him fifteen or so years be- 
fore, but plumper, older, as he would 
be now'. 

I returned to my chair, and sat 
musing about the past. 

Even in those days, his name had 
fitted Silkey Travis. At high school 
he organized the bathing beauty con- 
test, and gave the first prize to his 
cousin and the second prize to the 
girl who was the teacher’s pet of most 
of the teachers. The students’ science 
exhibition, a collection of local 


lizards, snakes, insects and a few 
Indian artifacts was an annual affair, 
which brought a turnout of admiring 
parents. Invariably, it was Silkey 
who organized it. Plays, holiday 
shows and other paraphernalia of 
school pastimes felt the weight of 
his guiding hand and circus spirit. 

After graduating from high school, 
I went on to State college to major 
in biology, and I lost sight of Silkey 
for seven years. Then I saw an item 
in one of the papers to the effect 
that local boy Silkey Travis was 
doing w'ell in the big town, having 
just purchased a “piece” of a vaude- 
ville show, and that he also owned 
a “piece” in a beach concession in 
New Jersey. 

Again, there was silence. And now, 
here he was, no doubt “piece” owner 
of the circus freak show. 

Having solved the mystery of the 
postcard, so it seemed to me, I felt 
amused and tolerant. I wondered if 
Silkey had sent the card to all his 
former school companions. I decided 
not to puzzle any more about the 
meaning of the words written on the 
back. The scheme behind them was 
all too obvious. 

Sitting there, I had absolutely no 
intention of going to the circus. I 
went to bed at my usual hour, and 
woke up with a start some hours 
later to realize that I was not alone. 
The sensations that came to me as I 
lay there have been described by 
Johnson in his book on morbid fears. 

I lived in a quiet neighborhood, 
and the silence was intense. Present- 
ly, I could hear the labored pound- 
ing of my heart. Poisons surged 
into my stomach; gas formed and 
leaked up to my mouth bringing a 
bitter taste. I had to fight to keep 
my breath steady. 

And still I could see nothing. The 
dark fears ran their courses, and the 
first thought came that I must have 
had a nightmare. I began to feel 
ashamed of myself. I mumbled : 

“Who’s there?” 

No answer. 

I climbed out of bed, and turned 
on the light. The room was empty. 
But still I wasn’t satisfied. I went 
out into the hall, then I examined 
the clothes closet and bathroom. 


40 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


Finally, dissatisfied, I tested the 
window fastenings — and it was there 
I received my shock. Painted on the 
outer side of the pane of one of 
the windows were the letters : 

‘‘The cat requests that you come 
to the circus.” 

I went back to bed so furious that 
I thought of having Silkey arrested. 
When I woke up in the morning the 
sign was gone from the window. 

B y the time breakfast was 
over, my temper of the night 
had cooled. I was even able to feel 
a pitying amusement at the des- 
perate desire of Silkey to let his old 
acquaintances know what a big shot 
he was. Before starting off to my 
morning classes at State, I looked 
under my bedroom window. I found 
what looked like footprints, but they 
were not human, so I decided that 
Silkey must have taken care to 
leave no tracks of his own. 

At class, just before noon, one of 
the students asked me whether there 
was any good explanation in biolog- 
ical science for freaks. I gave the 
usual explanation of variabilities, 
nutritional def iciences, diseases, 
frustration of brain development af- 
fecting the shape of the body, and 
so on. I finished drily that for fur- 
ther information I would direct him 
to my old friend, Silkey Travis, di- 
rector of freaks at the Pagley-Mat- 
terson circus. 

The offhand remark caused a sen- 
sation. I was informed that a freak 
at this circus had prompted the orig- 
inal question. “A strange, cat-like 
creature,” the student said in a 
hushed voice, “that examines you 
with the same interest that you ex- 
amine it.” 

The bell rang at that moment, and 
I was spared the necessity of mak- 
ing a comment. I remember thinking, 
however, that people hadn’t changed 
much. They were still primarily in- 
terested in eccentricity whereas, as 
a scientist, the processes of normal- 
cy seemed to me far more fascinat- 
ing. 

1 still bad no intention of going 
to the circus. But on the way home 
that afternoon I put my hand in my 
breast pocket, and drew out the post- 


card with the photograph of Silkey 
on the front. I turned it over ab- 
sently, and read again the message 
that was on it: 

“The interspatial problem of de- 
livering mail involves enormous 
energy problems, which effect 
time differentials. Accordingly, 
it is possible that this card will 
arrive before I know who you 
are. As a precaution I am send- 
ing another one to the circus 
with your name and address on 
it, and the two cards will go out 
together. 

‘‘Do not worry too much about 
the njethod of delivery. I sim- 
ply put an instrument into a 
mail box. This precipitates the 
cards into the box on earth, and 
they will then be picked up and 
delivered in the usual fashion. 
The precipitator then dissolves. 

“The photograph speaks for 
itself.” 

It didn’t. Which is what began to 
irritate me again. I jammed the card 
back into my pocket, half-minded to 
phone up Silkey and ask him what 
the silly thing meant, if anything. I 
refrained, of course. It wasn’t im- 
portant enough. 

When I got out of bed the next 
morning, the words, “The cat wants 
to talk to you!” were scrawled on 
the outside of the same window 
pane. They must have been there a 
long time. Because, even as I stared 
at them, they began to fade. By the 
time I finished breakfast they were 
gone. 

1 was disturbed now rather than 
angry. Such persistence on Silkey’s 
part indicated neurotic overtones in 
his character. It was possible that I 
ought to go to his show, and so give 
him the petty victory that would lay 
his ghost, which had now haunted 
me two nights running. However, it 
was not till after lunch that a 
thought occurred to me that sudden- 
ly clinched my intention. I remem- 
t^red Virginia. 

For two years I had been profes- 
sor of biology at State. It was an 
early ambition which, now that I 
had realized it, left me at a loose 
end for the first time in my life. Ac- 
cordingly, for the first time in my 


THE CATAAAA 


♦1 


rather drab existence the mating 
urge was upon me. Virginia was the 
girl, and, unfortunately, she regard- 
ed me as a cross between a fossil and 
a precision brain. I felt sure that the 
idea of marrying me had not yet oc- 
curred to her. 

For some time it had seemed to 
me that if I could only convince 
her, without loss of dignity, that I 
was a romantic fellow she might be 
fooled into saying yes. What better 
method than to pretend that I still 
got excited over circuses, and, as a 
grand climax to the evening I would 
take her in to see Silkey Travis, 
and hope that my acquaintance with 
such a character would thrill her 
exotic soul. 

The first hurdle was bridged when 
I called her up, and she agreed to 
go to the circus with me. I put the 
best possible face on for the pre- 
liminaries, riding the ferris wheel 
and such juvenilia. But the moment 
of the evening for me came when I 
suggested that we go and see the 
freaks being shown by my old friend, 
Silkey Travis. 

It really went over. Virginia 
stopped and looked at me almost ac- 
cusingly. 

“Philip,” she said, "you’re not 
trying to pretend that you know a 
person called Silkey? She drew a 
deep breath. “That I have to see.” 

Silkey came through beautifully. 
He was not in when we entered, but 
the ticket taker called into some rear 
compartment. And a minute later 
Silkey came charging into the main 
freak tent. He was plump with the 
plumpness of a well fed shark. His 
eyes were narrowed as if he had 
spent the past fifteen years calcu- 
lating the best methods of using 
other people for his own advantage. 
He had none of the haunted look of 
the photograph, but there were 
ghosts in his face. Ghosts of greed 
and easy vices, ghosts of sharp deal- 
ing and ruthlessness. He was all 
that I had hoped for, and, best of 
all, he was pathetically glad to see 
me. His joy had the special Quality 
of the lonely nomad who is at last 
looking longingly at the settled side 
of life. We both overdid the greet- 
ing a little, but we were about equal- 


ly pleased at each other’s enthusi- 
asm. The hellos and introductions 
over, Silkey grew condescending. 

"Brick was in a while ago. Said 
you were teaching at State. Con- 
grats. Always knew you had it in 
you.” 

I passed over that as quickly as 
possible. “How about showing us 
around, Silkey, and telling us about 
yourself?” 

W E HAD already seen the fat 
woman and the human skel- 
eton, but Silkey took us back and 
told us his life history with them. 
How he had found them, and helped 
them to their present fame. He was 
a little verbose, so on occasion I 
had to hurry him along. But finally 
we came to a small tent within the 
tent, over the closed canvas entrance 
of which was painted simply, “THE 
CAT”. I had noticed it before, and 
the chatter of the barker who stood 
in front of it had already roused my 
curiosity : 

“The cat . . . come in and see the 
cat. Folks, this is no ordinary event, 
but the thrill of a lifetime. Never 
before has such an animal as this 
been seen in a circus. A biological 
phenomenon that has amazed scien- 
tists all over the country... Folks, 
this is special. Tickets are twenty- 
five cents, but if you’re not satisfied 
you can get your money back. That’s 
right. That’s what I said. You get 
your money back merely by stepping 
up and asking for it. . .” 

And so on. However, his ballyhoo 
was not the most enticing angle. 
What began to titillate my nerves 
was the reaction of the people who 
went inside. They were allowed to 
enter in groups, and there must have 
been a guide inside, because his bare- 
ly audible voice would mumble on 
for some minutes, and then it would 
rise to a hearable level, as he said, 
“And now, folks, I will draw aside 
the curtain and show you — the cat!” 

The curtain must have been pulled 
with a single jerk, on a carefully 
timed basis. For the. word, cat was 
scarcely out of his mouth, when the 
audience reaction would sound : 
“Aaaaaa !” 

Distinct, unmistakable exhalation 


42 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


of the breaths of a dozen startled 
peopFe. There would follow an un- 
comfortable silence. Then, slowly 
the people would emerge and hurry 
to the outer exit. Not one, that I 
was aware of, asked for his money 
back. 

There was a little embarrassment 
at the gate. Silkey started to mumble 
something about only owning part 
of the show, so he couldn’t give 
passes. But I ended that by quickly 
purchasing the necessary tickets, 
and we went inside with the next 
group. 

The animal that sat in an arm- 
chair on the dais was about five 
feet long and quite slender. It had 
a cat’s head and vestiges of fur. It 
looked like an exaggerated version 
of the walkey-talkey animals m 
comic books. 

At that point resemblance to 
normalcy ended. 

It was alien. It was not a cat at 
all. I recognized that instantly. The 
structure was all wrong. It took me 
a moment to identify the radical va- 
riations. 

The head ! High foreheaded it was. 
and not low and receding. The face 
was smooth and almost hairless. It 
had character and strength, and in- 
telligence. The body was well bal- 
anced on long, straight legs. The 
arms were smooth, ending in short 
but unmistakable fingers, surmount- 
ed by thin, sharp claws. 

But it was the eyes that were 
really different. They looked nor- 
mal enough, slightly slanted, proper- 
ly lidded, about the same size as the 
eyes of human beings. But they 
danced. They shifted twice, even 
three times as swiftly as human eyes. 
Their balanced movement at such 
a high speed indicated vision that 
could read photographically reduced 
print across a room. What sharp, 
what incredibly sharp images that 
brain must see. 

All this I saw within the space 
of a few seconds. Then the creature 
moved. 

It stood up, not hurriedly, but 
casually, easily, and yawned and 
stretched. Finally, it took a step for- 
ward. Brief panic ensued among the 


women in the audience, that ended as 
the guide said quietly: 

“It’s all right, folks. He frequent- 
ly comes down and looks us over. 
He’s harmless.” 

The crowd stood its ground, as 
the cat came down the steps from 
the dais and approached me. The 
animal paused in front of me, and 
peered at me curiously. Then it 
reached gingerly forward, opened my 
coat, and examined the inside breast 
pocket. 

It came up holding the postcard 
with the picture of Silkey on it. I 
had brought it along, intending to 
ask Silkey about it. 

For a long moment the cat exam- 
ined the card, and then it held it out 
to Silkey. Silkey looked at me. 

“Okay?” he said. 

I nodded. I had a feeling that I 
was witnessing a drama the motiva- 
tions of which I did not understand. 
I realized that I was watching Silkey 
intently. 

He looked at the picture on the 
card, and then started to hand it to 
me. Then he stopped. Jerkily, he 
pulled the card back, and stared at 
the photograph. 

**For cripes sake,” he clasped. “It’s 
a picture of me.” 

There was no doubt about his sur- 
prise. It wa's so genuine that it 
startled me. I said: 

“Didn’t you send that to me? 
Didn’t you write what’s on the back 
there?” 

Silkey did not answer immediate- 
ly. He turned the card over and 
glared down at the writing. He be- 
gan to shake his head. 

“Doesn’t make sense,” he mut- 
tered. “Hmmm, it was mailed in 
Marstown. That’s where we were 
three days last week.” 

He handed it back to me. “Never 
saw it before in my life. Funny.” 

His denial was convincing. I held 
the card in my hand, and looked 
questioningly at the cat. But it had 
already lost interest. As we stood 
there, watching, it turned and 
climbed back up to the dais, and 
slumped into a chair. It yawned. It 
closed its eyes. 

And that’s all that happened. We 
all left the tent, and Virginia and 


THE CATAAAA 


43 


I said goodbye to Silkey. Later, on 
our way home, the episode seemed 
even more meaningless than when it 
had happened. 

I don’t know how long I had been 
asleep before I wakened. I turned 
over intending to go right back to 
sleep. And then I saw that my bed- 
side light was burning. I sat up 
with a start. 

The cat was sitting in a chair be- 
side the bed, not more than three 
feet away. 

T here was silence. I couldn’t 
have spoken at the beginning. 
Slowly, 1 sat up. Memory came of 
what the guide at the show had 
said... “Harmless!” But I didn’t be- 
lieve that anymore. 

Three times now this beast had 
come here, twice to leave messages. 
I let my mind run over those mes- 
sages, and I quailed "... The cat 
wants to talk to you!” Was it pos- 
sible that this thing could talk. 

The very inactivity of the animal 
finally gave me courage. I licked my 
lips and said : 

“Can you talk?” 

The cat stirred. It raised an arm 
in the unhurried fashion of some- 
body who does not want to cause 
alarm. It pointed at the night table 
beside my bed. I followed the point- 
ing finger and saw that an instru- 
ment was standing under the lamp. 
The instrument spoke at me: 

“I cannot emit human sounds with 
my own body, but as you can hear 
this is an excellent intermediary.” 

I have to confess that I jumped, 
that my mind scurried into a deep 
corner of my head — and only slow- 
ly came out again as the silence con- 
tinued, and no attempt was made to 
harm me. I don’t know why I should 
have assumed that its ability to 
speak through a mechanical device 
was a threat to me. But I had. 

I suppose it was really a mental 
shrinking, my mind unwilling to 
accept the reality that was here. 
Before I could think clearly, the 
instrument on the table said: 

"The problem of conveying 
thoughts through an electronic de- 
vice depends on rhythmic utilization 
of brain energies.” 


The statement stirred me. I had 
read considerable on that subject, be- 
ginning with Professor Hans Ber- 
ger’s report on brain rhythms in 
1929. The cat’s statements didn’t 
quite fit. 

“Isn’t the energy potential too 
small?” I asked. “And besides you 
have your eyes open. The rhythms 
are always interfered with when the 
eyes are open, and in fact such a 
large part of the cortex yields to 
the visual centers that no' rhythm 
whatever is detectable at such 
times.” 

It didn’t strike me then, but I 
think now that I actually distracted 
the animal from its purpose. "What 
measurements have been taken?” it 
asked. Even through the mind radio, 
it sounded interested. 

“Photoelectric cell s,” I said, 
“have measured as much (or as lit- 
tle, which is really more accurate) 
as SO microvolts of energy, mostly in 
the active regions of the brain. Do 
you know what a microvolt is?” 

The creature nodded. It said 
after a moment, “I won’t tell you 
what energy my brain develops. It 
would probably frighten you, but it 
isn’t all intelligeilce. I am a student 
on a tour of the galaxy, what might 
be called a post-graduate tour. Now, 
we have certain rules — ” It stopped. 
“You opened your mouth. Did you 
wish to say something?” 

I felt dumb, overwhelmed. Then, 
weakly, “You said galaxy.” 

“That is correct.” 

“B-but wouldn’t that take years?” 
My brain was reaching out, striving 
to grasp, to understand. 

“My tour will last about a thou- 
sand of your years,” said the cat. 

“You’re immortal?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“But — ” 

There I stopped. I couldn’t go on. 
I sat there, blank-brained, while the 
creature went on: 

“The rules of the fraternity of 
students require that we tell one per- 
son about ourselves before we leave 
the planet. And that we take with us 
a symbolical souvenir of the civili- 
zation of the beings on it. I’m curi- 
ous to know what you would suggest 
as a souvenir of earth. It can be 


44 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


anything, so long as it tells at a 
glance the dominating character of 
the race.” 

The question calmed me. My brain 
stopped its alternation of mad whirl- 
ing followed by blankness. I began 
to feel distinctly better. I shifted 
myself into a more comfortable posi- 
tion and stroked my jaw thoughtful- 
ly. I sincerely hoped that I was giv- 
ing the impression that I was an 
intelligent person whose opinion 
would be worthwhile. 

A sense of incredible complica- 
tion began to seize on me. I had re- 
alized it before, but now, with an 
actual decision to make, it seemed 
to me that human beings were real- 
ly immensely intricate creatures. 
How could anybody pick one facet 
of their nature, and say, “This is 
man!” Or “This represents man!” I 
said slowly: 

“A work of art, science, or any 
useful article — you include those?” 

“Anything.” 

My interest was now at its peak. 
My whole being accepted the won- 
derfulness of what had happened. It 
seemed tremendously important that 
the great race that could travel the 
breadth and length of the galaxy 
should have some true representa- 
tion of man’s civilization. It amazed 
me, when I finally thought of the 
answer, that it had taken me so 
long. But the moment it occurred to 
me, I knew I had it. 

“Man,” I said, “is primarily a re- 
ligious animal. From times too re- 
mote to be a written record, he has 
needed a faith in something. Once, 
he believed almost entirely in ani- 
mate gods like rivers, storms, plants, 
then his gods became invisible ; now 
they are once more becoming ani- 
mate. An economic system, science — 
whatever it will be, the dominating 
article of it will be that he worships 
it without regard to reason, in other 
words in a purely religious fashion. 

I finished with a quiet satisfaction, 
“All you need is an image of a man 
in a durable metal, his head tilted 
back, his arms raised to the sky, a 
rapt expression on his face, and 
written on the base of the inscrip- 
tion, ‘I believe’.” 

1 saw that the creature was star- 


ing at me. “Very interesting,” it 
said at last. “I think you are very 
close to it, but you haven’t quite got 
the answer.” 

It stood up. “But now I want you 
to come with me.” 

“Eh?” 

“Dress, please.” 

It was unemotionally said. The 
fear that had been held deep inside 
me for minutes came back like a fire 
that had reached a new cycle of en- 
ergy. 

I DROVE MY car. The cat sat be- 
side me. The night was cool and 
refreshing, but dark. A fraction of 
a moon peered out occasionally 
from scurrying clouds, and there 
were glimpses of star filtered dark 
blue sky. The realization that, from 
somewhere up there, this creature 
had come down to our earth dimmed 
my tenseness. I ventured: 

“Your people — have they prog- 
ressed much further than we to the 
innermost meaning of truth?” 

It sounded drab and precise, a ped- 
agogical rather than a vitally alive 
question. I added quickly: 

“I hope you won’t mind answer- 
ing a few questions.” 

Again it sounded inadequate. It 
seemed to me in an abrupt agony of 
despair that I was muffing the op- 
portunity of the centuries. Silently, 
I cursed my professional training 
that made my every word sound as 
dry as dust. 

“That card,” I said. “You sent 
that?” 

“Yes.” The machine on the cat’s 
lap spoke quietly but clearly. 

“How did you knov/ my address 
and my name?” 

“I didn’t.” 

Before I could say anything, the 
cat went on, “You will understand 
all that before the night’s over.” 

“Oh!” The words held me for a 
second. I could feel the tightness 
crawling into my stomach. I had 
been trying not to think of what was 
going to happen before this night 
was over. “...Questions?” I croaked. 
“Will you ansv/er them?” 

I parted my lips to start a machine 
gun patter of queries. And then. I 
closed them again. What did I want 


THE CATAAAA 


45 


to know? The vast implications of 
that reply throttled my voice. Why, 
oh, why, are human beings so emo- 
tional at the great moments of their 
lives? I couldn’t think, for what 
seemed an endless time. And when 
I finally spoke again, my first ques- 
tion was trite and not at all what 
I intended. I said: 

“You came in a spaceship?” 

The cat looked at me thoughtful- 
ly. "No,” it replied slowly. “I use the 
energy in my brain.” 

“Eh! You came through space in 
your own body?” 

"In a sense. One of these years 
human beings will make the initial 
discoveries about the rhythmic use 
of energy. It will be a dazzling mo- 
ment for seience.” 

“We have,” I said, “already made 
certain discoveries about our ner- 
vous systems and rhythm.” 

“The end of that road,” was the 
answer, “is control of the powers 
of nature. I will say no more about 
that.” 

I was silent, but only briefly. The 
questions were bubbling now. “Is it 
possible,” I asked, “to develop an 
atomic powered spaceship?” 

“Not in the way you think,” said 
the cat. “An atomic explosion can- 
not be confined except when it is 
drav/n out in a series of timed frus- 
trations. And that is an engineering 
problem, and has very little to do 
with creative physics.” 

“Life,” I mumbled, “where did 
life come from?” 

“Electronic accidents occurring in 
a suitable environment.” 

I had to stop there. I couldn’t 
help it. “Electronic accidents. What 
do you mean?” 

“The difference between an inor- 
ganic and an organic atom is the ar- 
rangement of the internal structure. 
The hydrocarbon compounds being 
the most easily affected under cer- 
tain conditions are the most common 
form of life. But now that you have 
atomic energy you will discover that 
life can be created from any element 
or compound of elements. Be care- 
ful. The hydrocarbon is a weak life 
structure that could be easily over- 
whelmed in its present state of de- 
velopment.” 


I felt a chill. I could just picture 
the research that would be going on 
in government laboratories. 

“You mean,” I gulped, “there are 
life forms that would be dangerous 
the moment they are created?” 

“Dangerous to man,” said the cat. 
It pointed suddenly. “Turn up that 
street, and then through a side en- 
trance into the circus grounds.” 

I had been wondering tensely 
where we were going. Strangely, it 
was a shock to realize the truth. 

A few minutes later we entered 
the dark, silent tent of the freaks. 
And I knew that the final drama of 
the cat on earth was about to be 
enacted. 

A tiny light flickered in the shad- 
ows. It came nearer, and I saw that 
there was a man walking underneath 
it. It was too dark to recognize him, 
but the light grew stronger, and I 
saw that it had no source. And sud- 
denly I recognized Silkey Travis. 

Ke was sound asleep. 

He came forward, and stood in 
front of the cat. He looked unnatu- 
ral, forlorn, like a woman caught 
without her makeup on. One long, 
trembling look I took at him, and 
then I stammered: 

“What are you going to do?” 

The machine the cat carried did 
not reply immediately. The cat 
turned and stared at me thoughtful- 
ly, then it touched Silkey’s face, 
gently, with one finger. Silkey’s 
eyes opened, but he made no other 
reaction. I realized that one part of 
his consciousness had been made 
aware of what was happening. I 
whispered: 

“Can he hear?” 

The cat nodded. 

“Can he think?” 

The cat shook its head; and then 
it said : 

“In your analysis of the basic na- 
ture of human beings, you selected a 
symptom only. Man is religious be- 
cause of a certain characteristic. I’ll 
give you a clue. When an alien ar- 
rives on an inhabited planet, there 
is usually only one way that he can 
pass among the intelligent beings on 
that planet without being recog- 
nized for what be is. When you find 


46 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


that method, you have attained un- 
derstanding of the fundamental 
character of the race.” 

It was hard for me to think. In 
the dim emptiness of the freak tent, 
the great silence of the circus 
grounds all around, what was hap- 
pening seemed unnatural. I was not 
afraid of the cat. But there was a 
fear inside me, as strong as terror, 
as dark as night. I looked at the un- 
moving Silkey with all the lines of 
his years flabby on his face. And 
then I stared at the light that hov- 
ered above him. And finally I looked 
at the cat, and I said ; 

“Curiosity. You mean, man’s curi- 
osity. His interest in strange objects 
makes him accept them as natural 
when he sees them.” 

The cat said, “It seems incredible 
that you, an intelligent man, have 
never realized the one character of 
all human beings.” It turned brisk- 
ly, straightening. “But now, enough 
of this conversation. I have fulfilled 
the basic requirements of my domi- 
cile here. I have lived for a period 
without being suspected, and I have 
told one inhabitant that I have been 
here. It remains for me to send home 
a significant artifact of your civili- 
zation — and then I can be on my 
way. . .elsewhere.” 

I ventured, shakily, “Surely, the 
artifact isn’t Silkey.” 

“We seldom,” said the cat, “choose 
actual inhabitants of a planet, but 
when we do we give them a compen- 
sation designed to balance what we 
take away. In his case, virtual im- 
mortality.” 

I felt desperate, suddenly. Seconds 
only remained ; and it wasn’t that I 
had any emotion for Silkey. He 
stood there like a clod, and even 
though later he would remember, 
it didn’t matter. It seemed to me 
that the cat had discovered some in- 
nate secret of human nature which 
I, as a biologist, must know. 

“For God’s sake,” I said, “you 
haven’t explained anything yet. 
What is this basic human charac- 
teristic. And what about the post- 
card you sent me. And — ” 

“You have all the clues.’ The crea- 
ture started to turn away. “Your in- 
ability to comprehend is no concern 


of mine. We have a code, we stu- 
dents, that is all.” 

“But what,” I asked desperately, 
“shall I tell the world? Have you 
no message for humankind, some- 
thing — ” 

The cat was looking at me again. 
“If you can possibly restrain your- 
self,” it said, “don’t tell anyone any- 
thing.” 

This time, when it moved away, it 
did not look back. I saw, with a 
start, that the mist of light above 
Silkey’s head was expanding, grow- 
ing. Brighter, vaster, it grew. It be- 
gan to pulse with a gentle but un- 
broken rhythm. Inside its coalescing 
fire the cat and Silkey were dim 
forms, like shadows in a fire. 

Abruptly, the shadows faded; and 
then the mist of light began to dim. 
Slowly, it sagged to the ground, and 
lay for minutes blurring into the 
darkness. 

Of Silkey and the creature there 
was no sign. 

T he group sitting around the 
table in the bar was briefly 
silent. Finally, Gord said, “Glub!" 
and Jones said in a positive fashion; 

“You solved the problem of the 
postcard, of course?” 

The slim, professorish man nodded. 
“I think so. The reference in the 
card to time differentials is the clue. 
The card v/as sent after Silkey was 
put on exhibition in the school mu- 
seum of the cat people, but because 
of time variations in transmission it 
arrived before I knew Silkey would 
be in town.” 

Morton came up out of the depths 
of his chair. “And what about this 
basic human characteristic, of which 
religion is merely an outward ex- 
pression?” 

The stranger made a gesture. 
“Silkey, exhibiting freaks, was real- 
ly exhibiting himself. Religion is 
self-dramatization before a god. Self- 
love, narcissism — in our own little 
way we show ourselves off... and so 
a strange being could come into our 
midst unsuspected.” 

Cathy hiccoughed, and said, “The 
love interest is what I like. Did you 
marry Virginia? You are the profes- 
( Please turn to Page 68) 


WHY WE MIGHT HAVE 
ANOTHER WORLD WAR! 

by Aldlen Lorraine 

Auf'hor of "The Weapon Makers", A. E. Van Vogf, recently prophesied a 
third World War. Speaking before attendees of a Science Fiction Conven- 
tion, he stated: 

"tVe shall hare another war because human beings hove not yet learned 
to understand themselves. Notice, please, that I did not say that they 
haven't learned to understand others. It is themselves that they don't 
understand." 

The internationally known author of “Sian”, “The World of Nilll-A” 
(which is being translated into French) and “The Voyage of the Space 
Beagle”, foresees that this failure to “Know Thyself !” will produce 
planetary disaster. 

Before World War II, the late H. G. Wells predicted “East is West and 
West is East, today, and they’re coming together with a bang!’’ History 
bore him out. 

General Semantician van Vogt believes the two hemispheres will inev- 
itably clash again. This time with a Brobdingnagian smash, heard not 
only ’round the world but reverberating to the God of War’s home planet: 
Mars. 

Producing perhaps — ^who knows? — Atomigeddon! 



Starting with the next issue of MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES, let- 
ters from our readers will be a regular department. So let s 
have your views and observations — on MARVEL, on fantasy-fic- 
tion in general, on whatever (as long as your approach is at 
least pseudo-scientific!) you think should be brought to the 
attention of science fiction fans today — The Editors 


47 


OVERLORD OF EARTH 


CHAPTER I 

K erry KORD crouched in 
utter blackness, sensing rath- 
er than seeing the other 
eighteen men in the belly of the 
glider. Only Glenn Bodey, squatting 
at his back, strapped with him in the 
two-man parachute, could he defi- 
nitely identify. Minutes before, the 


motor of the giant tcw-plar 
been killed, and Kerry knew that the 
fleet of twenty-five gliders must be 
in the vicinity of the “Overlord’s 
Throne’' 

Inhaling deeply, Kerry touched the 
emergenev 'chute release with his left 
hand and his Ghormley automatic 
with his right. A matter of minutes 
now. Despite rigid self-control, he 


Will tnen in growing w/sao.'n finolfy realize ffie sfup/dify o/ inferno- 
fionai slou^lifer and ^orgsJ fhe so-called art of war? But when and if 
fhoy do, even t'ten an Andrev appear — a master killer who might 

t.avQ ciiccovered the secret cf phychcl immorfaiity and have lain in a 
had ^:;ddcn crypt ter corrh^rles, a product of an earlier, mors violent dey 
v/fjo weifed pafscntly for tiW fisne when he would find maiurTd mankind 
an eazy prey for k<i bloodthirsty villainy? 


WHEN MAN FINALLY ACHIEVES WORLD PEACE. 
WHAT WILL HE DO ABOUT ANDREV? — STARTLING 
FEATURE - LENGTH FUTURE - SCIENCE NOVELET! 



by 

LLOYD 

ARTHUR 

ESHEACH 



50 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


could feel his heartbeat quicken, and 
a constriction high in his chest made 
breathing difficult. He rose to his 
full six-foot height; felt Bodey’s 
broad form rising with him. 

“Cold up here,” the latter growled 
heavily. “I could do with a little 
heat.” 

“It*ll be warmer shortly,” Kerry 
commented. “much warmer — very 
shortly.” 

That v/as how it had been since 
their take-off from their hidden 
base in the ruins of New York City — 
small talk — trivial complaints — lead- 
ing up to indirect admission of the 
tension that gripped all of them. 

Soon the waiting would be ended. 
Soon they would actually attack the 
stronghold of the world dictator — 
the self-styled “Overlord.” Soon they 
would know whether they would live 
or die — whether humanity would re- 
main enslaved or would be free. 

In his mind*s eye Kerry again saw 
the final assembly of The Remnant. 
Saw grim-faced, gray-clad hordes 
stalking through dank tunnels, lit- 
tered with' the silt and rubbish of 
decades, to meet in what had once 
been the terminus of a vast net of 
subway tubes, the heart of the trans- 
portation system of Earth’s greatest 
metropolis. The Remnant of Earth’s 
freemen — the comparative few of all 
mankind who refused to yield to 
Andrev, the Overlord — had chosen 
instead to live almost as beasts 
among the ruins of once mighty 
cities. 

He saw again the close-packed, 
waiting thousands facing the high 
platform upon which had stood the 
Chief, Janothan Hardinger, stiffly 
erect in the trim, gray synthane of 
The Remnant, sharply visible in the 
beams of a battery of floodlights. Be- 
hind him had sat the Ten, the scien- 
tists, councilors and strategists of 
The Remnant. And all about fiie plat- 
form, in motionless rank upon rank, 
arranged with military precision, had 
stood five hundred men in lustreless 
black — Kerry Kord among them. 

He heard again the final ringing 
words of the Chief. “We need not 


die — and we shall not die! Men will 
again be free! Our plans have been 
made; our preparations are complete. 

“You have been summoned to learn 
your part in our plan for freedom. 
What that plan is we may not say — 
but upon each of you and the success- 
ful completion of your individual as- 
signment depends the liberty oi hu- 
manity. Each of you will be armed. 
Each of you will be fitted with a 
uniform of the Overlord’s Guard. 
Each of you will be assigned to a 
city and a man or woman in that 
city. And that individual must die!” 

Kardinger's hand had indicated the 
ranks of the men in black. “Upon 
these men falls the greater task of 
the destruction of the Overlord him- 
self. They are the pick of all The 
Remnant — and they shall not fail ! 

“A v/eek from today is the an- 
niversary of man’s enslavement, the 
Overlord’s ‘Liberation Day’. There 
will be carousing and riotous cele- 
bration, as there always has been, 
and when it is at its height, when 
midnight mantles the Himalayan 
peak they call the Overlord’s Throne, 
we strike — for freedom!” 

A t last that hour was at hand! 

His hour, he hoped, when he 
would destroy the life of the one 
being he trul3^ hated. The slayer of 
his father, once one of the Ten, and 
the greatest scientist of his day. 

Kerry’s thoughts veered to An- 
drev, the Overlord, and his angular 
features tightened savagely. Murder- 
er, sadist, spoiler of a civilization. 
Product of an earlier, more violent 
day who, so the tale was told, had 
discovered the secret of physical iin-? 
mortality, and had lain in a crypt 
for three hundred years, to awaken 
and enslave a world. Men in their 
growing wisdom had finally realized 
the stupidity of international 
slaughter and had forgotten the so- 
called art of war. Andrev, steeped in 
the foul knowledge of a century — the 
twentieth — redolent with wars, had 
found the new age easy prey. And, 
whether or not he was immortal, he 
had ruled Earth for a hundred years. 


OVERLORD OF EARTH 


51 


yet physically had not changed at 
all. 

Above everything, Andrev must 
not escape! He would be sought out 
— and would be found v/here masses 
of his satellites were assembled. For 
the Overlord was never alone. . . .was 
afraid to be alone! Afraid, with a 
maddening, unbalancing fear born of 
his centuries in the tomb. Centuries, 
it was whispered, when his body had 
been as though dead, while his mind 
was alert, awake, and utterly — alone. 

Minutes now — perhaps seconds — 
and the men from the past would be 
attacked by an army recruited from 
the pages of history. “Paratroop- 
ers” had figured in wars in Andrcv’s 
age — and “paratroopers” would de- 
stroy the head and heart of the Over- 
lord’s system! Invisible, black-clad 
paratroopers raining from a midnight 
sky. . . . 

Momentarily a red light winked 
over the heads of the waiting men. 
The signal. A rustle of synthane 
swished through the silence. Then 
a great door slid aside in the wall of 
the glider and a blast of frigid air 
whipped through the opening. 

“Jump position!” Kerry barked. 
“Two and two. Remember youT in- 
structions.” He was talking to fill 
in the gap before the actual leap into 
the dark. “We’ll try to land on the 
flying field in front of the Sfar 
Tov;er. If we miss it, we get there as 
fast as we can. We join the wedge 
that blasts its way into the Tower 
— then, unless Andrev is blasted 
in the first assault — and if intelli- 
gence knows anything, he won’t be. 
for he’ll run at the first sign of 
trouble — we hit for the top of the 
Tower, blasting everyone before us.** 

Kerry’s words came faster. Time 
was running out. “If I get mine, 
Bodey takes over. If he goes, Gill 
is in command. If Gill goes — you 
know the order. Only — g^t — 
through!'* 

Again that flash of red ! And the 
first pair of men leaped into the 
night — a night now aglow with the 
light that rose from the Overlord’s 
citadel. On the heels of the first, 
tho second pair — the third — split 


seconds between jumps, the cords at- 
tached to the rod overhead automat- 
ically opening the 'chutes. ...Ker- 
ry and Bodey took their place in the 
line, the last to jump save the pilot 
v/ho would abandon the glider and 
follow. . . . 

With a rush of thin, icy air, Ker- 
ry and his partner plummeted to- 
ward the Himalayan plateau far be- 
low. Automatically Kerry counted, 
his finger gripping the emergency 
pull — one-and-a-two — he felt the 
v/rench and jar under his arm-pits, 
the thud against the back of his pad- 
ded cap as the folds of black syn- 
thane ballooned above them. Heard 
Bodey’s sardonic, “Nice view — but 
too blamed cold for comfort.” He 
grinned a tight, strained grin and 
looked downward. 

Brilliantly lighted, the Overlord’s 
Throne lay like a jeweled mosaic 
among snow-capped peaks. As the 
plateau leaped skyward, details ap- 
peared. Parklike expanses of precise- 
ly trimmed green formed the setting 
for glittering buildings of metal and 
plastic, neon-tubed and garish, where 
the tyrant government of Earth held 
sway. One great structure of glisten- 
ing steel in the center of the plateau 
stood out by virtue of its shape, a 
perfect six-pointed star, the symbol 
of the Overlord. Crimson lights 
flooded the top of the famous Star 
Tower which held the Council Hall 
of Andrev and his lieutenants. 

C 'CURIOUSLY Kerry peered into 
> the sky around him. As far as 
the eye could see, he and Bodey 
were alone in the blackness. So per- 
fectly were the others concealed by 
their lustreless black that they de- 
fied detection. He heard Bodcy’i 
voice thinly in his ears: 

“Nice night for a murder!” 

Kerry made no comment. Skillfully 
he maneuvered the ’chute toward 
the giant structure. A great flying 
field surrounded the tower, a field 
where Andrev’s followers landed 
when they came to report to the 
Overlord. That was the destination 
of two hundred of them — the very 
heart of things, where they hoped to 
find the tyrant. Another hundred 


52 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


would seek the communication cen- 
ter — fifty more, supply headquarters, 
and so on, completely covering the 
plateau. The wind caught the ’chute 
and swept it toward the Star Tower 
. . . closer . . . now to swerve .... 

To Kerry’s taut senses came a 
shrill, thin whine, mounting in a 
swift crescendo. He’d been waiting 
for that — a pov/erful robot plane div- 
ing out of the blackness with a four- 
ton cargo of destruction — plummet- 
ing toward the quarters of the Over- 
lord’s Guard. Seconds after the first 
faint sound, it struck with a mighty 
roaring blast that rolled thunder- 
ously over the mountains, and an an-- 
gry, lurid mass of smoke and flame 
plumed skyward. A direct hit, Kerry 
exulted, as fragments of stone and 
metal and plastic rained earthward. 
That would help — plenty! 

With startling suddenness a hail of 
bursting shells flared toward them 
from batteries of concealed anti-air- 
craft guns — and simultaneously the 
lights of the Overlord’s Throne 
winked into blackness! Kerry’s eyes 
bored through the dark, broken only 
by shell blasts and the red glow of 
the burning building. They had ex- 
pected this, of course — automatic de- 
tectors had picked them up and au- 
tomatic defenses had been tripped 
into motion. One of the secrets An- 
drev had brought from the past. It 
didn’t change things at all — if burst- 
ing shell fragments didn’t blast them 
out of the sky. Their plan provided 
for this. Once they’d landed.... 

With a jar that shook them from 
head to foot, Kerry and Glenn Bodey 
crashed against a hard, smooth sur- 
face. Arms linking mechanically, 
they rolled over, tumbling away from 
the folds of the synthane ’chute. 
Training made their movements 
sv/ift and sure — and in moments 
they sprang free of the mass of cloth. 
Grimly silent, they dropped prone 
upon the plastic runway, rocket 
blasters gripped in their hands. Sim- 
ple weapons, these, designed for a 
specific job — that of getting into the 
tower. 

With his left hand Kerry drew a 
small, tubular flare from a belt com- 
partment, thrust a finger through a 


ring at one end and began counting 
slowly. A minute must pass. . . . 

As the seconds dragged by, Ker- 
ry’s straining senses caught faint 
sounds somehow penetrating through 
the incessant crash and rattle of gun- 
fire — soft thuds of rubber-soled 
shoes, the swish of yards of syn- 
thane ; then as the minute neared its 
end the faint sounds ceased. All the 
troopers should have landed now... 
Seconds. . . . 

With one swift movement Kerry 
flung the flare far from him, re- 
taining the ring release, and watched 
through slitted eyelids. Searingly a 
brilliant white glare burst the black- 
ness asunder to be followed instant- 
ly by deeper blackness ; and upon the 
retina of every man’s eyes was 
stamped a photographic picture of 
their surroundings. Kerry saw black 
mounds dotting the plastic every- 
where — saw the glistening smooth- 
ness of the blued steel that blocked 
the entrance into the Citadel. 

With the speed of thought Kerry 
pointed his rocket blaster and 
squeezed its release, sending the 
single powerful charge of the weap- 
on hissing meteorlike toward the 
barrier. It struck with a crackling 
report, that merged into a single ear- 
splitting blast as the weapon in the 
hand of every paratrooper spoke. 
Most of the shells struck the target — 
and where they struck, streamers 
and tongues and droplets of 
white hot fire bit savagely into 
the steel. Nothing made of metal 
could long withstand that concentrat- 
ed inferno of heat. 

As one the black-clad horde leaped 
erect and charged toward the door, 
running in a weaving crouch. Use- 
less rocket blasters clattered to the 
runway to be replaced bv lethal 
Ghormley automatics with their 
hundred rounds of explosive pellets. 
As they ran, they formed into an 
irregular wedge with Kerry Kord at 
its apex. 

Through the widening slits and 
gaping holes in the door Kerry saw 
the interior of the Council Hall, and 
at its far end the incredible splendor 
of Andrev’s throne. The space with- 
in the great room was a bedlam of 


OVERLORD OF EARTH 


S3 


scurrying men and women, vari- 
colored lights gleaming on the bare 
flesh and scanty attire of the de- 
cadent rulers. 

As he ran, Kerry drew a grenade 
from his belt and held it in readi- 
ness, his fingers on the firing pin. 
Great gaping holes now appeared in 
the door, molten steel dripping from 
their brightly burning edges; as he 
drew close, Kerry paused momen- 
tarily and hurled the bomb through 
the opening. A breathless instant — a 
bursting, rending roar of flame and 
yellow-green smoke — and Kerry 
hurtled swiftly through the ragged 
ring of flame ! 

CHAPTER I! 

MINUTES that followed 

■ were a nightmare of bloody, 

" roaring slaughter. The forc'es 
of the Overlord, their minds already 
befuddled with their hours of carous- 
ing, were completely demoralized, 
capable of only the most feeble re- 
sistance. Flight was the universal im- 
pulse. As the men of the Remnant 
poured through the burning doorwav 
to spread fanwise across the hall, 
they swept the massed revelers be- 
fore them like sheep. It was slaugh- 
ter — and slaughter without quarter. 
They had come as executioners to 
wipe out Andrev and his followers, 
root and branch — and prisoners had 
no place in their olnn. 

As he sped through the huge 
chamber, firing methodically at every 
fleeing figure within range, Kerry’s 
mind wavered between satisfaction at 
the success of their attack thus far 
and a vague sense of uneasiness. It 
was unbelievable that the Overlord 
could be so completely unprepared 
for attack. The element of surprise 
had given them an unquestioned ad- 
vantage, and the celebration of ‘Lib- 
eration Day’ with its attendant de- 
bauchery had helped a lot. Then too, 
there had been no organized resist- 
ance for so long a period that the 
danger of an uprising had seemed 
completely T>a?.t. But certainly An- 
drev had additional automatic de- 


fense installed during the early days 
of his reign when the danger of re- 
volt must have been something to 
cope with ; to think otherwise was to 
underestimate the Overlord’s intelli- 
gence. 

Kerry scanned the chamber with 
quick, keen glances, while charging 
ahead with unbroken stride. Two 
things in particular he noted. The 
Overlord’s throne v/as empty; and 
everyone ran as though by prear- 
ranged plan toward a narrow door- 
way in the far wall close to the 
throne — streaming through it in a 
steady unbroken line. 

The Overlord, certainly, had pre- 
ceded his followers through that 
doorway ! 

Casting a glance behind him, Ker- 
ry saw that he still led the pack, 
though Bodey was at his heels. With 
a single piercing shout he sprinted 
toward the narrow opening, ignoring 
the panicstricken stragglers who 
scurried away at his approach. His 
cry seemed to have spurred the flee- 
ing mass to new effort, for suddenly 
the narrow doorway became jammed 
with a fighting, squirming mass of 
humanity. Grimly Kerry hurled a 
grenade, a second, a third — and as 
the thunderous detonation rolled 
through the room, the doorway 
cleared completely. 

As he reached the opening, an 
ominous roar swept through the hall 
and he glanced over his shoulder. 
His face blanched. A withering rain 
of machine gun fire was sweeping 
the hall from openings in both side 
walls! Someone, somewhere, had been 
v/aiting till the room had cleared of 
Andrev’s men — then had set off bat- 
teries of weapons, trained in devas- 
tating crossfire. His comrades were 
dropping on every hand. 

A furious curse burst from him as 
Bodey reached his side. A trap— and 
thev had been caught in it! 

“Up to us, Glenn,” he rasped, 
whirling and thrusting his Ghormley 
into its holster. Nothing but gre- 
nades now — and Andrev their only 
objective. 


54 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


The room they had entered was 
far smaller than the Council Hall, 
and in its far end were jammed a 
mass of the rulers, struggling to 
enter four large elevators that lined 
the wall. Four elevators — and all the 
doors were open! None had yet left 
ground level. 

W ITH COMMON consent Ker- 
ry and Bodey began throwing 
grenades, their advance slowed to a 
walk. Thunderous reverberations 
rocked the room, mingled v/ith the 
shrieks and screams of the injured. 
Choking, acrid smoke billowed 
across the chamber — and like black 
robots the two men of the Remnant 
stalked through the shambles. 

Kerry, grim-faced, narrow-eyed, 
kept his gaze fixed on the open ele- 
vator doors. In one of them, he was 
certain, was Andrev. If only he could 
plant a grenade within those little 
cubicles! He aimed carefully, but the 
cast fell short — and as the smoke 
of the explosion eddied away, he 
saw the door slide shut. One was 
gone ! That last grenade had done 
the trick. 

Kerry’s fingers groped for another 
grenade — found it — and he realized 
suddenly that it was his last one. 
Better keep it for an emergency. 
He gripped the butt of his Ghorm- 
ley, turned to Bodey. 

“Glenn,” he snapped, “we've got 
to get to those elevators quick. An- 
drev’s in one of them — and we must 
get him! You take the right — ” 

He broke off abruptly as a fa- 
miliar stentorian voice rose above the 
bedlam. The Overlord! 

“Attention! Cowards! Only two 
men are attacking you ! The rest have 
been wiped out. Turn and destroy 
them !” 

The words took instant effect upon 
the milling mass. Heads turned and 
an ominous roar surged from scores 
of throats. And suddenly a beam of 
intense brilliance flashed tov/ard the 
two men from the heart of one of 
the elevators. From a weapon, Kerry 
thought, in the hands of Andrev him- 
self. 

“A grenade, Glenn,” he snapped 


through tight lips. If the mob 
turned on them, their chances were 
slim. Panic had been their strong- 
est ally. 

“All gone,” Bodey grunted lacon- 
ically. 

Kerry grasped his last bomb. 
“Then follow me and get to that 
second elevator. Fast!” Pie hurled the 
grenade into the thick of the mob; 
and as it roared its message of death 
he dashed with every ounce of 
strength toward the cubicle that must 
hold the Overlord. One hand clutched 
the Ghormley ; with the other he 
drev/ a foot-long, razor-sharp knife. 

Savagely he fought his way 
through the close-packed mass of hu- 
manity, slashing, kicking, his auto- 
matic blasting. Hands that clutched 
at him were swept aside as, weaving, 
darting, leaping, he pressed furious- 
ly toward the Overlord. 

He heard a chorus of agony and 
fear rise ahead of him — caught a 
glimpse of that searing beam of the 
Ovejiord cutting scythelike through 
the bodies of his own men! Clearing 
the elevator! With a furious oath 
Kerry leaped high and fired at the 
source of beam — and the door closed 
smoothly upon a lone figure stand- 
ing erect amid sprawling bodies. 

Unreasoning rage seized Kerry 
Kord. Afterward he had only a 
vague recollection of a melee of 
writhing torsos, clutching hands, 
blows, amid a clamor of screams and 
explosions — tlien somehow he had 
reached an elevator — had plunged 
within upon a squirming mound of 
men and women. The door slid shut, 
and they shot skyward. Reason re- 
turned when a terrified feminine 
voice shrieked almost in his ear: 

“Here’s one of them!” 

Kerry thought swiftly. He couldn’t 
hope to overcome a score of people, 
though they were unarmed, in such 
close quarters if they really resisted. 
His Ghormley was practically use- 
less here since he couldn’t fire it 
without endangering himself. There 
was only one v/ay out — bluff. 

“Quiet!” he roared bitingly, his 
voice cold and incisive. “You have 


OVERLORD OF EARTH 


55 


one chance to live. I’m after the 
Overlord, not you.” He thrust up a 
clenched fist in which was gripped 
one of the tubular flares. ‘"You’ve 
seen the effects of these grenades — 
and if you resist I’ll release this 
one right now. We’ll die, every one 
of us. If you tell me where Andrev 
went you may go. Your answer — 
quick!” 

A dozen voices clamored : "The top 
of the tower — he’s got a plane there! 
that’s where he is!” 

COWLING threateningly Kerry 
surveyed the faces turned to- 
ward him. What he saw on the 
bruised and perspiring countenances 
convinced him they were telling the 
truth. One dark-eyed girl said boldly> 
‘T hope you get him. He blasted us 
with that pistol of his to save his 
own skin.” 

Inspired by the example of bolder 
spirits, others in the crowd began 
cursing Andrev. Kerry listened with- 
out comment, revulsion faintly 
curling his lips. They could be 
courageous — now. 

The elevator came to rest of its 
own volition and someone slid back 
the door. Eagerly they pushed aside 
to clear a path for Kerry. With his 
fist held high above him for all to 
see, Kerry stalked into the open, 
glimpsing the black sky overhead. 
He saw something else — a gleaming 
metal dome in the center of the six- 
pointed star that was the top of the 
Star Tower. 

And the hangar was ablaze with 
light, the muffled roar of rocket jets 
rising from within! 

Kerry spun toward the elevator. 
Already the door was closing upon 
Andrev’s satellites, all too eager to 
escape unharmed. It slid shut and 
Kerry turned to sprint toward the 
glittering dome. 

As he ran, he thought of the plane 
and the hangar. This was something 
unforeseen in the plans of the Ten, 
something which Remnant Intelli- 
gence had overlooked. From the sky 
this hanger could not be seen, 
concealed, perhaps, by super- 
camouflage, or more logically, hidden 


in the floor below, and raised to roof 
level mechanically when needed. 
Once in the plane, escape might 
readily be accomplished by the Over- 
lord. 

Kerry had had ideas of his own 
concerning Andrev’s possible manner 
of escape if attacked. .. .About ten 
years before, Kerry’s father had been 
a scientist of world prominence. 
Working in the laboratories of the 
State, his sympathies had nonetheless 
been with the Remnant, of which he 
had been an important though secret 
member. Then one day he had been 
summoned by the Overlord — and that 
was the last he had ever been seen 
by the Remnant. Rumor had said that 
he had successfully completed a 
series of experiments upon some- 
thing in which Andrev had been 
interested and had died so his 
knowledge might be the Overlord's 
alone. Kerry’s jaws clenched at the 
thought. He had a personal score to 
settle. .. .But of greater importance 
was the fact that he knew the subject 
of his father’s experimentation. It 
was mastery of the Fourth Dimen- 
sion — travel through time! 

Conceding that it could be done, 
what could be more logical than the 
thought that this man who had come 
out of the past would flee into a 
future age if flight became necessary, 
where he might again gain a world 
empire? 

As the polished walls of the 
hangar loomed above him, Kerry 
looked for a doorway, and found one 
just as a wide section of the wall 
moved aside to permit the exit of a 
plane. Darting into the hangar, he 
hesitated briefly while his eyes 
raced over the strangely designed 
rocket ship that half-filled the open 
space before him. 

In that momentary glimpse he saw 
it was a rocket plane as large as 
many cc^nmercial stratosphere trans- 
ports, equipped with nose and tail 
vents, transparent plastic control 
cabin and possessing wings of extra- 
ordinary length. The strangest fea- 
ture of the machine, however, was 
the series of enormous hoops of 
inch-thicl^ crystalline tubing which 


«6 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


circled its tapering fuselage and that 
formed a border around the rim of 
the long, streamlined wings. Defi- 
nitely, it was unlike any plane Kerry 
had ever seen — and suddenly he 
believed he knev/ why. The time 
traveling equipment had been 
installed in the plane! 

He wasted no more time in 
examination, for the rear rockets 
were roaring a warning that in 
moments Andrev would be on his 
way. A glance at the transparent 
nose of the plane revealed that the 
Overlord was not at the controls ; 
but he must be somewhere in the 
ship. With his Ghormley held in 
readiness, Kerry sprang to the 
nearest door and turned the catch. 
It moved easily under his hand and 
the door opened inward. 

With every nerve wire-taut, Kerry 
eased himself through an opening he 
made barely wide enough to admit 
his powerful form — and with the 
suddenness of a lightning bolt, a 
blinding, coruscating flare of light 
knifed his brain and utter blackness 
engulfed him. 

CHAPTER HI 

W HEN consciousness re- 
turned to Kerry Kord he 
first became aware of the 
steady cruising blast of rockets, 
aggravating the throbbing in his 
head. His second impression was one 
of some burdensome pressure 
weighing him down, pressing him 
painfully against a hard, smooth 
surface, This sensation ended, and 
he heard the dry, sardonic chuckle 
of the Overlord. 

“You may as well open your eyes,” 
a deep voice said coldly. “I know 
you are conscious and you can’t 
possibly overpower me with a 
surprise attack.” 

Still slightly dazed, Kerry opened 
his eyes and forced himself into a 
sitting position. He was on the floor 
of the control room of Andrev’s 
plane. The massive form of the 
World Dictator stood at the controls, 
directing the flight of the craft, his 


eyes for the moment fixed in cold 
appraisal upon Kerry. Surprisingly, 
Kerry discovered, his arms and legs 
were free. 

Divining his thoughts the Over- 
lord said dispassionately, “You aren’t 
bound because some of your impet- 
uous friends arrived at the hangar 
in time to hurry my take-off a bit — 
but then, I don’t consider you of 
too great importance. You are un- 
armed, and I am very well armed. 
And even in direct physical attack, 
I consider myself quite able to 
defend myself without weapons. You 
are here and alive, frankly, because 
I like company.” 

Kerry rose slowly to his feet, 
feigning weakness. He was himself 
again; and through narrowed lids he 
surveyed Andrev, weighing his 
chances of overpowering him. It was 
the first time he had been this close 
to the Dictator and he had to admit 
that the man was a formidable figure. 
Well over six feet tall, he was 
tremendously broad-shouldered, yet 
despite his bulk, he gave the 
impression of litheness. And his 
face, angular and strong-jawed, 
crowned by a high, broad forehead, 
was one of tremendous power. The 
wide mouth and deep-set glittering 
eyes, especially, bore an expression 
of arrogance and self-assurance. 
Certainly an antagonist not to be 
taken lip’htly. 

Andrev spoke again in a casual 
voice, his keen eyes sweeping the 
instrument panel. “Now that your 
inspection has convinced you that 
precipitate action would be unwise, 
let us dispense with sham and relax. 
You’ll find a seat behind you. You 
may as well enjoy a journey which 
I believe you will find unique.” 

Quite a showman, Kerry thought 
as he dropped into a deeply up- 
holstered chair. He raised an eye- 
brow in studied boredom as he spoke 
for the first time. 

“Thanks !” Then after a brief 
pause, “I don’t suppose there’s much 
sense in my asking where we’re 
going.” 


OVERLORD OF EARTH 


57 


Andrev frowned as though giving 
the matter thought. “I see no reason 
for withholding information which 
you cannot possibly use — though 
'when’ might be more accurate than 
‘where’.’' He glanced at the altimeter. 
"At the moment we are approximate- 
ly twelve thousand feet above the 
Himalayas. We are moving in a wide 
circle above the general vicinity of 
my^ headquarters. Since we have, I 
believe, risen to sufficient height, in 
a few moments we will be a thou- 
sand years in the future, completely 
beyond the reach of your — Remnant. 
For our iourney lies through the 
Fourth Dimension, Time!” 

Andrev fixed his eyes on Kerry’s 
and they began to blaze wrathfully. 
The casual, studied superciliousness 
fell from him, and all the venomous 
hatred and fury within the man’s 
being seemed to find expression on 
his face. 

"When I return, I’ll bring with me 
the knowledge and might — the v/eao- 
ons — of another civilization — and I'll 
use that knowledge to destroy utter- 
ly the upstarts who dared to resist 
their master! They’ll not die easily — 
they’ll die slowly, cursing the Rem- 
nant !” 

f N SPITE OF himself, Kerry Kord 
felt a momentary thrill of dread. 
A madman Andrev certainly was — 
but a madman who had enslaved a 
world. 

Andrev’s words continued as the 
fingers of one hand darted over the 
control panel and the other hand 
drew a rocket pistol from his belt. 
"Do not move until I give you per- 
mission. In seconds we’ll be traveling 
through the time warp. I have never 
made this trip — but another has, and 
the machine does work — and if any- 
thing seems amiss you’ll die instant- 
ly.” Dropping into the pilot’s seat, he 
fixed his gaze on the tele-viewer 
which now revealed only empty 
blackness below the plane, and he de- 
pressed a button at the top of the 
panel. 

A faint, soundless vibration seized 
the ship and its occupants, mounting 
swiftly to a mighty quivering that 


threatened momentarily to shake 
every molecule of matter within the 
range of the time machine into its 
component atoms. Kerry’s thoughts 
were a garbled, jumbled, inchoate 
mass, as though the vibration had 
set thought impulses quivering into 
being without rational guidance. 
Memories of childhood mingled with 
flashing images of purely imaginary 
things. Emotions shook him in ka- 
leidoscopic disorder. Sights and 
sounds of maddening intensity 
mingled with an incredible hegira of 
all his senses, as though every nerve 
in his mind and body were a string 
in some strange instrument, and a 
mad musician were playing the com- 
bined discords of all eternity. And 
all of this concentrated in a single 
timeless instant. 

Suddenly it ended! 

Like a spring unwinding, Kerry 
Kord's muscles relaxed. Had the time 
machine worked? He was sure it had, 
for he had confidence in his father’s 
work, and he believed that in all 
probability he knew as much or more 
about the device than the Overlord. 

He looked at Andrev, a question on 
his lips — and his eyes widened with 
sudden interest and a flare of hope 
surged through him. Andrev seemed 
frozen into rigidity, staring incredu- 
lously into the viewing plate, his ex- 
pression one of utter consternation. 
His pistol dangled limply from flac- 
cid fingers. Without a glance at 
Kerry he arose and strode into the 
transparent nose of the ship. As he 
stared at whatever lay beyond, his 
massive frame seemed to sag limply, 
and Terry heard him utter dazedly; 

“What — what happened? Where’s 
— the Earth?” 

Craning his neck, Kerry stared at 
the tele-viewer, and his forehead fur- 
rowed in a thoughtful frown. Cer- 
tainly there was reason for Andrev’s 
surprise. The blackness of space 
filled the oval screen, star-flecked 
space sweeping past in a constantly 
changing panorama as the rocket 
plane described its circular orbit. 
Now red lig^ht flared suddenly in the 
screen — light, Kerry saw through 
narrowed, tear-filled eyelids, stream- 
ing from a crimson, cooling binary 


58 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


sun ! Twin suns like burnished cop- 
per discs large as dinner plates, cir- 
cling about each other! 

The double sun vanished, moving 
out of the viewer’s field of vision, 
and almost instantly the surface of 
a planet sprang into view. They were 
dangerously close, for details were 
plainly visible. A strange world of 
vast level plains covered with pallid 
gray-green vegetation, of low, rolling 
hills worn smooth by the weathering 
of milleniums. An ancient world of 
shallow, tideless seas, a world as 
Earth might be in a million years. 

But this wasn’t Earth — Kerry 
knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. 
It was a smaller world — and never 
would old Earth revolve around a 
binary star. Kerry’s thoughts raced. 
There must be an explanation.... 
there was something his father had 
said concerning time travel .... Ker- 
ry’s wonderment suddenly dissipated 
and he grinned to himself. There 
were some things about travel 
through the time dimension that 
Andrev didn’t know. . . . 

Andrev! With feline smoothness 
Kerry slid to his feet, his rubber- 
soled boots making no sound on the 
metal floor. He sent lightning 
glances darting about for a weapon, 
but he saw nothing that would serve. 
His fists curled into hard knots and 
his muscles quivered with anticipa- 
tion. This was his chance — and he 
dared not fail! 

He had crossed most of the inter- 
vening distance when something 
seemed to warn Andrev, for Kerry 
saw him stiffen. He covered the last 
few yards in a whirlwind rush, his 
right fist drawn far back — and as 
Andrev spun around, that fist drove 
home with every ounce of power of 
Kerry’s command. 

CHAPTER IV 

A ndrev reeled backward to 
to crash heavily into the nose 
of the rocket ship. His pistol 
spun from his hand, skittered against 
the smooth wall and landed a dozen 
feet away. 

Swiftly the big man leaped erect, 
shaking himself like some great ani* 


mal. His face was that of a beast of 
prey, the veins standing out on his 
forehead like ugly, bloated worms. 
A gutteral oath oozed from between 
his clenched jaws as he sprang. 

Kerry met his charge with savage 
blows of both fists against the jutting 
jaw; then the force of the charge 
carried them into a clinch. Kerry 
winced as a white hot knife of pain 
stabbed him — Andrev’s knee finding 
the pit of his stomach. Viciously he 
drove his fingers into the Overlord’s 
eyes, and the big man writhed free, 
sucking his breath betv*^een his teeth. 
He leaped back out of the range of 
Kerry’s fists, his low, rasping snarl 
a sound horrible to hear — then swift- 
ly he charged, his neck swollen and 
his eyes engorged with blood. 

Kerry ducked under a heavy blow, 
landed a powerful overhand swing, 
then staggered back as Andrev’s fist 
landed solidly against his chin. The 
Overlord followed, an insane chuckle 
rumbling deep in his throat, his great 
fists swinging. Some of the blows 
Kerry caught on fists and forearms; 
others reached their mark; and Ker- 
ry began to realize that every ad- 
vantage lay w’ith Andrev. Despite the 
years which he must have lived, he 
was physically in his prime and a 
tremendously powerful m.an. 

Desperately Kerry leaped for An- 
drev’s throat. His hands found their 
hold — and simultaneously two rigid 
thumbs drove into his own windpipe. 
They crashed to the floor, locked in 
deadly embrace. An icy oang of fear 
sv/ept up Kerry’s spine. The neck in 
his grasp seemed to swell and soli- 
dify like a pillar of stone — and his 
own throat was yielding to that mer- 
ciless pressure. Frantically his fingers 
clawed at the Overlord’s contorted 
visage. The man was killing him! 
He felt his lungs swelling unbeara- 
bly, and black spots danced and grew 
before his eyes. Fear made his 
thoughts desperately clear. He re- 
membered something he had seen dur- 
ing a fight in the dark tunnels under 
New York. If only he could get 
some air. . . . 

His fingers hooked in the corners 
of Andrev’s mouth and he pulled. 
With a grunt of pain the Overlord 


OVERLORD OF EARTH 


59 


tore his face free from the rending 
fingers, releasing Kerry’s throat. 
With the first great draft of air, 
Kerry wrenched his head upright and 
clasped his hands behind the other’s 
skull. A split second of bunching 
muscles, and with all his strength he 
drove the top of his head into An- 
drev’s face! 

The ghastly crunch of splintering 
bone grated on the air, and the Over- 
lord screamed with pain. He tore 
fiercely at Kerry’s hands, but the fin- 
gers were locked. Again the smaller 
man battered with brutal, stunning 
force; a shudder of agony wracked 
Andrev’s frame and he sagged limp- 
ly, a faint brutish whine sobbing in 
his throat and his breath blubbering 
through smashed lips and flattened 
bleeding nose. 

HEAVING lungs Kerry 
ww Kord rolled free and reeled to 
his feet. He looked down at the 
beaten dictator, savage satisfaction 
in his narrowed eyes. Something of 
the personal debt he owed had been 
paid. 

**Andrev !** he barked. 

The big man started fearfully and 
his trembling fingers strove to wipe 
the blood from his eyes. “Yes,” he 
whispered hoarsely, desperate fear 
in his voice. 

“You were startled by what you 
saw outside the plane. Why?” 

Andrev sucked in a tortured 
breath. “We — we are out in space — 
and the Sun and the Earth — have 
disappeared I Even the constellations 
‘ — have changed ! Something went 
wrong !” 

Kerry grinned mirthlessly. “Noth- 
ing went wrong. What has happened 
was to be expected. Nothing else 
could happen! We have travelled in 
moments a thousand years of time 
through the Fourth Dimension. We 
travelled independently of three di- 
mensional space — and the Earth, the 
Solar System, was moving away from 
us into infinity at an inconceivable 
speed for a thousand years! We 
moved into our future a thousand 
years through Time in less than a 
minute — but no machine imaginable 
by our intelligence could travel in 


those moments through the infinite 
distances in space which our Solar 
System and Galaxy have traversed in. 
ten centuries.” * 

Andrev’s terrified whine was a 
sickening thing. Courage and morale 
were completely broken. “Then — 
then we’re lost out here in space — 
without supplies — alone!” The Izist 
word was little more than a gasp; 
and the big man buried his ruined 
face in his hands and wept. 

V/ith a shudder of revulsion Ker- 
ry picked up the rocket-pistol and 
thrust it into the holster which had 
held his Ghormley. He found his 
knife and automatic in a niche be- 
side the control panel and thrust 
them into his belt. Then he centered 
his attention upon the dials and 
gauges that controlled the flight of 
the ship through space and time. The 
plane had a standard rocket drive, he 
noted with satisfaction; that would 
cause him no difficulty. 

Carefully he noted their position 
as Andrev had set it when starting 
their orbit around the Himalayan 
peaks. Carefully he calculated the 
time that had elapsed since they had 
started their journey. Then with skill- 
ful touch he sent the ship into a 
steep dive toward the ancient world 
below them. 

Smoothly he brought the plane to 
rest in a bleak little valley beside a 
tiny watercourse. Dwarf trees, short- 
er than a man and crowned with dull 
gray-green foliage, lined its banks. 
There was no sign of animal life 
save a small froglike creature basfc^ 
ing in the light of the crimson 
(Please turn to Page 107) 

‘According to Harlow Shapley, our en- 
tire watch-shaped Galaxy rotate around 
a central axis, not as a solid, but with 
different spe^s at different distances 
from the center. Measures of radial and 
transverse motions indicate that at our 
distance from the center of the Galaxy 
(some 30,000 light years) our speed in 
the orbit of revolution is something like 
two hundred miles a second. Accordingly, 
the Solar System would have been moving 
away from the time machine at the rate 
of tw'o hundred miles a second for a thou- 
sand years... In addition, the Galaxy it- 
self is supposedly nashing away from 
some central point in the universe, sep- 
arating the r<^et plane from the Sol^ 
System by a corresponding distance. 


THE RACE TO THE MOON 



SENSATIONAL NEWS FOU SCIENCE-FICTION FANS FROM OUR 
HOLLYWOOD (ON THE MOON) CORRESPONDENT! 

FORREST J. ACKERMAN 


H ollywood, in its usual 

colossal, fashion, has just 
launched not one but two 
rockets to the Moon! The first, 
rocketship Pal, a 150’ atomic-pow- 
ered job designed by ace science fic- 
tioneer, Robert Heinlein — in techni- 
color! The second, a 180’ step-rocket 
patterned after Life’s lunar ship pic- 
tured late last year, and “piloted” 
by Kurt Neumann. 

The fact is that movie producer 
Geo. Pal has an interplanetary film, 
DESTINATION MOON, that was 
already shown to the public; and al- 
most simultaneously the Neumann 
directed ROCKETSHIP X-M will 
be released. 

Now, as a science-fiction fan, the 
magic syllable is your Open 

Sesame to a closed set on a Studio 
lot. Come with me in imagination — 
240,000 miles, not straight up but on 
a Hohmann orbit — and set foot with 
me on the Moon as you will see 
it pictured in the Eagle-Lion release. 

The set, designed by Cheslev 
Bonestell, is literally off-this-earth. 
Bonestell is the artist with cameras 
in his blood whose graphic paintings 
of astronomical bodies have thrilled 
science fan and layman alike right 


into a 3d edition of the Willy Ley 
book, “The Conquest of Space”. 

The set is a lunar landscape 173’ 
long and 120’ across. We stand at 
the base of Moon Rocket No. 1 that 
towers 150' into the — I almost said 
air, but then of course there is no 
atmosphere on the Moon. That’s v/hy 
the 4 figures emerging from the air- 
lock of the ship are clad in space- 
suits. On their backs they carry oxy- 
gen tanks, around their waists walkie- 
talkie units. The scene is just a re- 
hearsal, so actor Warner Anderson 
(playing D r. Cargraves, leading 
atomic physicist of 1960) gags it up 
by groaning, “I wish there was more 
space in this suit!” Altho theoreti- 
cally inflated with air, in actuality 
the suits are padded with wool, and 
altogether weigh 100 lbs. apiece. 

You will be interested to learn 
that by close observation I es- 
tablished the scientifact, once 
and for all, that the Moon is not 
made of green cheese (I swiped a 
few samples of solidified lava 
flow, which I will gladly sell luna- 
tics at $100,000 per gram). 

To insure astronautical accuracy, 
Robert Heinlein, the author of the 
book from which the picture was 


60 




THE RACE TO THE MOON 


61 


adapted (“Rocket Ship Galileo*') 
was employed as technical director. 
From him I pieced together the 
plot, when he was not busy suggest- 
ing that coke bottles be cleared off 
the Moon or warning someone near 
the camera it wouldn’t do for a puff 
of cigaret smoke to suddenly appear 
in empty space. Here’s a preview of 
the picture : 

Five years of preparations go up 
in one big pyrotechnic blaze when 
the first satellite rocket explodes 
several years hence. The hopes of 
setting a rocket on the Moon go 
glimmering and it is not till 1960 
that they are revived. “You see,” ex- 
plained Heinlein, “it was discovered 
that the first rocket didn’t just 
blow up — it was sabotaged.” 

Furthermore, it is learned thru 
military intelligence that alien eyes 
are on the Moon with the thought of 
“Tomorrow the Moon — the day after 
tomorrow, the World!” For who 
controls the Moon could easily con- 
quer the earth. The conquest of space 
now becomes a race for supremacy 
of the American ideology. 

With the perfection by Dr. Chas. 
Cargraves of a practical atomic en- 
gine and the financial backing of 
leading industrialist Jim Barnes, 
the first personnel-carrying Moon 
rocket is made ready. Cargraves 
and Barnes make the daring leap 
into space, accompanied by an Army 
offficer and a radar man. 

For the first time since the legend- 
ary Frau im Mond of a generation 
ago, science fiction enthusiasts 
have the opportunity to experience 
the vicarious thrill of a filmatic trip 
to the Moon. Realistically pictured 
are the amazing and amusing float- 
ing effects of objects and human be- 
ings inside the ship during free fall 
...a near disaster in deep space 
when the scientist’s magnetic boots 
are accidentally disconnected from 
the skin of the ship and he drifts 
in the void... the pancaking flatten- 
ing of the human features under a 
6-gravity take-off. And there are the 
awe-inspiring astronomical sights of 
our own Earth suspended in space 
against a backdrop of stars, and the 
majestic mountains and craters of 


that land in the sky called Luna. 

“They stay 5 days on the Moon,” 
according to Heinlein, “high up in 
the northern latitude, in the Crater 
Harpalus, and then have the devil’s 
own time getting back to Earth. 
Because of some minor miscalcula- 
tions, a lot of invaluable reaction 
mass had to be used up in making 
the landing; and now, in order to 
return, they have to sacrifice every- 
thing but the kitchen sink. Even the 
radio goes, to lighten the lunar take- 
off, and this leaves them without 
means of contacting Earth.” 

Does the rocket ever safely get 
back to Eartb? The conclusion of 
the picture hasn’t been filmed yet 
when I was on the set. Fortunately, 
none of us will have to wait 10 years 
to learn the fate of the rocket. “To 
keep ahead of reality!” Director Irv- 
ing Pichel informed me. “We have 
filmed DESTINATION MOON as 
a sort of documentary view into the 
near future, and we don’t want the 
headlines overtaking us!” 

Many problems were met and con- 
quered in the creation of this ambi- 
tious undertaking. When the first 
“rushes” revealed that all those white 
stars out there in space (tiny elec- 
tric globes surrounded by cello- 
phane) were halating red on the 
screen, they had to be sheathed in 
green in order to photograph white! 
The interior of the spaceship had 
to be built in the form of a giant 
gimbal so that acceleration couches, 
instrument panels, et al, could ro- 
tate thru 360 degrees during the nul- 
lification of gravity sequences. You 
can only travel so far on a 173’ stage, 
and in order to obtain the illusion 
of the spacemen being at great dis- 
tances from the camera, a most 
novel dodge was developed: mid- 
gets! Three miniature space-suited 
figures at one time and another 
substitute for the full-grown actors. 

If you are all a good audience and 
applaud loudly at the end of each 
performance and see the picture at 
least 10 times (as I intend to). Pro- 
ducer Pal has promised that he will 
produce another great science fic- 
tion film; Its title? This one is real- 
ly a classic: When Worlds Collide! 


THE GUINEA- 

by CEDRiC 
V(/ALKgR 

S ELLON looked at his visitor 
and wished heartily that he 
were anywhere else in the 
world. He thought : This is how the 
boys must feel when they're hauled 
up before me for putting jam in 
someone's football boots. 



Everything made to measure, 
that was the idea of the biolo- 
gist. Even re-creation of the 
human body was not beyond 
them now 

He smiled inv/ardly. It wasn’t that 
he felt he was in the wrong. On the 
contrary, he knew that he was right. 
His self-analysis had told him the 
obvious fact that unless he were ab- 
solutely convinced that he was acting 
for the best, he would never have 



62 



THE GUINEA-PIG 


63 


presumed to question the actions o£ 
such a man as this. 

Even now, against his will, he 
couldn’t help feeling over-awed. He 
braced himself and said : “That is 
my considered opinion.” How trite 
that sounded ! “From the very be- 
ginning I was opposed to this — ex- 
periment, and the results so far ap- 
pear to have borne me out.” 

Mostyn eyed him calculatingly. 
Despite himself, Sellon found him- 
self shifting uneasily under that 
cold impersonal scrutiny. Hang the 
man ! He looked at him as if he were 
one of his specimens under the 
microscope ! 

Feelingless devils, these biolo- 
gists! They had to be forever prob- 
ing and cutting and prying into the 
innermost secrets of things. Never 
content to leave well enough alone! 
It was unnatural, this perpetual, 
bloody tampering. . . . Nothing was 
sacrosanct any more! Not even re- 
creation of the human body itself 
was beyond them now. They would 
never rest until they had completely 
obsoleted nature, and the whole 
world crept from their ghastly oper- 
ating-tables ! 

Everything made to measure. Be- 
hold, the latest triumph of science — 
the human body ! Lord knew, it wasn’t 
that he was unprogressive! Sellon 
knew nobody could accuse him of 
that ! 

"We realize you’ve done your 
best,” said Mostyn wearily. Was 
it imagination, or was there a note 
of impatience in his voice? “Maybe 
it hasn’t been much of a success up 
to now. But we must go on, Sellon. 
We must win I We’ve created these 

creatures for better or worse 

they're here to stay. There's no go- 
ing back now. When they dropped 
the bomb at Hiroshima that was 
that. Wasn’t any use burbling: 
‘They shouldn’t have invented such 
a horrible thing. Let’s outlaw the 
atom-bomb and then we can all go 
home and get on with the garden.’ 
The bomb had come. Bend it to fit 
a man’s hand, and you’ve got the 
finest tool imaginable. Well, after a 
bit of a schemozzle we bent it. Now 
weVc got another problem on our 


hands, and we’ll get round this, too. 
But we need help, and it’s people 
like you who can give us that help.” 

“I’ve done what I could. It’s been 
given a fair trial, and I feel that 
there is little object in going on. 
After all, I've got the other boys to 
think of. God knows what harm this 
business may have done to them I 
You know, I suppose, that they’ve 
found out?” 

The biologist gestured impatient- 
ly. “They had to find out sooner or 
later. So maybe it’s for the best.” 

“Nevertheless — ” 

“May I remind you that the agreed 
time-limit has not yet expired.” 

“Quite so.” Sellon nodded reluc- 
tantly. He knew he was prejudiced. 
In ail fairness he had no legitimate 
complaint. The man — hang him! 
— was asking nothing more than had 
been agreed. But the pill was none- 
theless difficult to swallow. 

“Incidentally,” said Mostyn, “just 
how did they find out?” 

Sellon shrugged. “You know how 
boys are. You can’t keep anything 
from them.” He smiled. “If you have 
a row with your wife the little 
blighters know it the next morning. 
A school is no place for a man with 
a past. It wasn’t only the trouble he 
had telling left from right. Lots 
of humans are ambidextrous — though 
it isn’t quite the same thing, of 
course. 

“When he was batting he’d some- 
times take up a left-handed stance 
and sometimes the normal one. The 
others couldn’t help noticing. Then 
he had trouble with his knife and 
fork.... An uncanny sight, that, 
seeing him using them in opposite 
hands as easily as we do in the usual 
manner. We used to correct him 
every time we saw him do it, and 
he’d change over as smooth as you 
please, and hardly miss a mouth- 
ful! 

“But it wasn’t only that. It was 
the way he looked at times. I've only 
seen these creatures on one or two 
occasions, but they had the same ex- 
pression in their eyes. You know 
what I mean — the way they have of 
sometimes appearing to look right 
through you. It always gave me an 


64 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


uncanny feeling.” Sellon shuddered 
inwardly. Soulless devils, they were! 
What was it they called those 
things?.... Zombies! That was it. 

‘T know.” Mostyn passed a hand 
wearily over his face. “That’s the 
sort of thing we’re up against. Fool- 
ish prejudice. Superstition. Silly 
fairy-tales about monsters and such- 
like. Oh, it’s all been exploited to the 
full by our opponents ! They’ve done 
their worst, and I must admit they’ve 
made a pretty good job of turning 
peoples minds against the androids 
for good. But we’ll lick ’em.” A 
gleam came into his large black eyes, 
and his lips tightened. “We must!” 

Takes it pretty seriously, Sellon 
thought. Wasn’t as though it were 
a matter of life and death for him. 
The world had got on all right be- 
fore the androids came, and would 
probably be able to struggle on with- 
out their assistance for a few more 
millennia. Matter of personal pride, 
he supposed. After all, Mostyn vras 
the man chiefly responsible for the 
existence of these beings. 

“How did the other boys take 
him?” asked Mostyn. 

“Well, at first they were almost 
too scared to go near him. That’s af- 
ter they knew, of course. They’d 
heard such weird tales about them — 
naturally they were wary. But that 
didn’t last very long. Then they be- 
gan to treat him as something of a 
curiosity. Like all new boys, of 
course, he had been subjected to 
the usual ragging. Normally, that 
wouldn’t have meant a great deal: 
he would have got it over and been 
accepted as one of them. 

“Unfortunately, he didn’t react in 
the customary manner. In fact, he 
strongly objected to the whole busi- 
ness of initiation. Said the things he 
was expected to do were undigni- 
fied, and that the purpose behind it 
was — as far as he could see — silly 
and unnecessary, and entirely unbe- 
fitting a human being!” Sellon 
spread out his hands at the last 
words. A human being! The idea of 
it ! He looked expectantly at the 
other. 

Mostyn did not smile. 


ELLON snorted impatiently. The 
idea, apparently, didn’t strike 
him as outrageous at all! 

“You see,” said Sellon, “that’s the 
one thing the androids haven’t 
got.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Why, tradition.” Sellon frowned, 
and looked searchingly at his visi- 
tor. Was the man being deliberately 
obtuse? He made no sign of having 
heard, but continued gazing out of 
the window at the distant playing- 
fields. “Tradition,” Sellon repeated, 
firmly. 

Mostyn turned to face him slow- 
ly. "Oh,” he said, “Tradition.” There 
was no trace of amusement in his 
eyes, but Sellon felt suddenly a 
complete fool. 

Of course, he knew the bare state- 
ment was ridiculous. He had meant 
it not as a statement of fact but as 
a comment on the vast gulf that 
separated the androids from human- 
kind. He had intended — oh the 
devil ! — he knew what he had 
meant. Not so this cold, unsmiling 
devil before him! His dislike of the 
man deepened. 

Why didn’t these people get out 
of their stinking laboratories — out 
into the sun amongst ordinary folk? 
Get married. Have children. Do 
the things that everyone else did. 
Enjoy the bounty of nature — instead 
of grubbing round in her back alleys. 
Great Scientist Mostyn with a girl 

in his arms whispering sweet 

nothings the picture just would 

not come. He would probably be 
able to explain it all in terms of 
glands and secretions and what-not. 

“Yes, I see what you mean,” said 
Mostyn, surprisingly. 

Sellon perked up. Well! 

“But they will have, you know, 
one day. There will be a time when 
they will be absorbed into society on 
equal terms just as the Negro has 
been, and their very origin will be 
forgotten. Forgive me. I have no 
wish to preach.” 

Sellon made a conventional gesture, 
at the same time hoping he would not 
continue. 

“Don’t you understand, man?” 
Mostyn leaned forward. It was the 


THE GUINEA-PIG 


65 


first time he had shown any trace o£ 
passion, “We can’t keep them out 
there on Venus forever! Daily they 
grow in numbers and knowledge. 
They can reprodi'.ce themselves in 
their laboratories. We cannot stop 
them now — even if we wished to do 
so. They have been accepted as 
humans — in theory. But they cannot 
live here on Earth. We smooth our 
consciences by granting them equal 
status, but they must not v/ork with 
humans, they cannot enter our 
libraries, our transports, our restau- 
rants — in fact they cannot — except 
under very rare circumstances — come 
to Earth at all. 

“At last what we had dreamed of 
has come to pass, and the first child 
had been born to the androids in the 
natural way. Can you realize •what 
that means, Sellon? The first android 
child! Now in truth they are 
human!” He paused, and searched 
Sellon’s face. “That is why this 
experiment is so important. If it 
succeeds there will be no further 
obstacle: the human race will have 
to accept the androids!” 

Damn him! Sellon thought. The 
man’s right, after all. It was all 
entirely reasonable. But it didn’t 
make him like the idea any better. 
Not that he had much choice. He’d 
got his orders, and he’d carry them 
out to the best of his ability. 

“You'd like to see the — boy, of 
course?” he said. 

Mostyn nodded. The headmaster 
spoke into the audio on his desk. 

S N A FEW moments there was a 
knock on the door, and a small 
figure stood before them. 

Mostyn rose with outstretched 
hand, smiling. He was human, after 
all. Even if his androids weren’t. 

The boy’s face had been glum at 
first, but it brightened miraculously 
as his gaze fell on the scientist. 

Sellon thought: If you didn’t know 
you could certainly mistake him for 
a human boy. Nothing at all on the 
surface — apart from that oddly- 
penetrating stare at times. Maybe he 
c^caggerated that. Maybe the boy saw 
things that ordinary boys didn’t. Had 
to admit he was above the average 


in classwork. But that wasn’t every- 
thing. 

The two seemed to have forgotten 
his presence. He coughed. 

“If you would prefer it I — ” 

“Forgive me,” said Mostyn, “It’s 
been so long. Naturally, my interest 

Please stay. I should not dream 

of turning you out of your own 
room.” 

Sellon inclined his head. He 
listened without a great deal of 
interest as Mostyn questioned the 
boy about his work, asked about his 
friendships, v/hether he liked being 
at the school, and so on — in fact, 
behaved like any father visiting his 
son. Sellon found the thought 
amusing. 

About the ragging episodes the 
boy was reticent. Small wonder, 
Sellon thought, in front of his head- 
master! “You see, Andy,” said 
Mostyn, “It may be silly to you. 
It is silly. But then, it’s the sort 
of silliness that’s affected human 
beings in all ages — everywhere, and 
you’ve just got to get used to it and 
learn to put up with it. In fact — ” he 
smiled — “you’ve just got to put 
up with us.” 

Sellon just barely managed to 
repress a snort of disgust. What 
stuff to put into the minds of such 
creatures ! 

The scientist was continuing, 
apparently unaware of the storm he 
was creating behind him. “By the 

way, Andy, in your fights how 

did you get on?” 

For the first time the boy grinned. 
“I won,” he said simply. The head- 
master cut in, speaking with heavy 
sarcasm. “If you like, I can show 
you some of the results of our young 
friend’s experiments in remolding 
the features of his fellows.” 

Mostyn shook his head, but could 
not restrain a smile. There was a 
look almost of pride on his face. 
Certainly, when he had made the 
androids he had made them strong 
and free from disease. Physically, 
they were certainly far superior to 
the average human being. But, 
Sellon thought, with repugnance, 
their perfection was entirely labor- 
atory-made. Mas s-production. A 
thousand perfect human beings. 


66 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


quickly, please ! There you are, sir, 
call again ! 

“You won fairly?” said Mostyn. 

“Yes, sir. I’m stronger than they 
are. They all piled into me, but they 
couldn’t lick me!” 

Sellon thought: Now he’s bragging. 
They all piled into him! Sellon 
glanced at Mostyn, hoping for signs 
of disapproval. But the scientist 
maintained his calm, detached air, 
like a student listening to a lecture 
and occasionally noting some out- 
standing point. 

“Whatever happens, Andy,” said 
Mostyn, “you must never lose your 
temper. Scrap, by all means, but re- 
member that they don’t see things as 
clearly as you do. V/hat is clear to 
you may not always be so to the 
other boys. In many ways they are 
hampered; their thoughts are often 
over-clouded by emotions. Their her- 
itage weighs heavily upon them in 
so much that they do. It is diffi- 
cult, I know, but try and see things 
through their eyes, too.” 

Lay it on! Sellon said to himself.. 
Talk to him as if he were one of 
your learned biologist friends instead 
of a child ! Tell him that humans are 
creatures who go chasing around 
emoting love and hate all over the 
place! Pity you couldn’t have seen 
him v/hen he was knocking young 
Martin about! He’d looked pretty 
emotional himself just then ! 

“I’ll try, sir,” said the boy. “But 
they keep saying things — ” 

“What sort of things?” 

“They joke about my mother and 
father. They say why don’t they come 
and see me, like theirs do.” He 

looked up wide-eyed at Mostyn 

A strange wash of feeling swept 
momentarily over Sellon. After all, 

he was only a child “Why don’t 

they come and see me?” he urged. 

For the first time Mostyn looked 
slightly uneasy. 

Sellon stirred. Hallo? What was 
this? 

“Listen, son,” said the biologist, 
“maybe one day they’ll come. At the 
moment, I’m afraid ” 

Of course, there were rules — 
everyone knew that. But surely they 
could stretch a point... Sellon 


checked himself — Hey! Remember 
he wasn’t in sympathy with the thing 
from the beginning! 

The boy asked about his mother. 

“She’s fine, son,” Mostyn said, 
“fine. Last time I saw her.” 

The boy smiled happily. Then his 
face clouded. “And my father — why 
am I never allowed to see him? They 
keep asking about him.” 

Mostyn drew a deep breath before 
he spoke. He seemed to have trouble 
finding the right words. “Don’t 
bother your head about that for the 
moment. There’s a lot of things you’ll 
find out as you grow older. When 

the time comes ” He patted the 

boy’s head. “Now don’t forget what 
I’ve told you. You’ve got to make a 
success of this, you know. We’ll do 
it between us, won’t we, eh?” 

The boy’s answering smile was like 
a burst of sunlight in the room. “All 
right,” he said. But he didn’t sound 
to Sellon as if he v/ere really con- 
vinced. 

j^ELLON sat down heavily in the 
chair. His face was ashen. My 
God ! he thought. My God ! He col- 
lected himself and took a deep 
breath. After a moment he pressed 
the switch and asked for long-dis- 
tance. 

The dark eyes of Mostyn looked 
at him from the screen. As he took 
in the troubled face of the headmas- 
ter his eyebrows lifted. 

“What is it, man?” 

Sellon spoke haltingly: “I — I can- 
not tell you over this — Mostyn, you 
must come at once ! At once ! It is 
most urgent!” 

Mostyn’s face loomed larger as he 
bent forward. “But what — ?” 

“At once, Mostyn!” Sellon blanked 
the screen. He sat staring into space. 
For the moment there was nothing 
he could do. Maybe there was noth- 
ing anyone could do. The body had 
been removed. The boys had re- 
turned — against their will — to the 
classrooms. To all appearances the 
school had returned to normal. He 
had not yet informed the boy’s par- 
ents. No — better to wait until Mostyn 
arrived. It was his responsibility. 

That and Don’t think about 

that for the moment! Then 


THE GUINEA-PIG 


67 


what? we regret to inform 

you that your son is dead. He was 

killed A sudden wave of fury 

swept over Sellon. He’d told them! 
Why hadn’t they listened to him? 
What else could be expected? 
Created. . .soulless 

Suddenly Mostyn was before him. 
His face was gray, and he looked 
about a thousand years old. “Where 
is he now?” he bit out, and each 
word seemed to cost him an agon}’- of 
effort. 

Sellon said not a word. He walked 
across the room and took a macki- 
naw from the cupboard. Ke buttoned 
it v/ith painful deliberation. Mostyn 
watched him silently. 

Outside a steady drizzle was fall- 
ing. A few gray clouds trailed dis- 
consolately after each other across 
the darkling sky. 

“It’s not far,” said Sellon. “On the 
hill yonder.” 

He managed the flitter with ex- 
pert hands. The school dropped 
away, became a toy and vanished. 
They sped over the dismal, sodden 
land towards the distant hills. 

Sellon thought: Why the devil 
doesn’t the man say something? Ob- 
viously he knew. The janitor must 
have told him something. “There v/as 
a fight,” he said, hating the fact that 
he had to tell him. But he knew he 
had. “They had been calling him 
names— one boy in particular.” 

Mostyn seemed to come to life. He 
turned to face Sellon. It was as if 
for the first time he realized the pres- 
ence of the other. “What sort of 
names?” 

Sellon swallowed. He didn’t like 
this. “The allusion wasn't even cor- 
rect,” he said, wondering why he 
made the words sound so apologetic. 

“What name?” 

“Frankenstein.” 

Mostyn turned away, his lips com- 
pressed. Sellon saw his hands clench- 
ing and unclenching. He said: 
“There was a fight. He lost his tem- 
per. When it was over the boy v/ho 
had called him the name was dead. 
None of the masters learned of the 
fight until it was too late. The boys 
who were present said he had a mad 
look in his eyes, and they gave him 


a wide berth. From the beginning 
they were always a bit afraid of him 
—even when they ragged him. They 
say he looked wildly around him and 
at the body of the boy for a time as 
if he were lost. When he made for the 
flittcr-park they followed him, keep- 
ing at a respectable distance. But he 
seemed to have forgotten that they 
were there. Someone went for one of 
the masters. But by the time he had 
arrived the boy had scram- 

bled into one of the flitters and was 
careering off madly over the tree- 
tops. 

“But they’re difficult things to 
handle — especially for a boy of his 
size. We saw the flitter continue its 
crazy flight for a time, dipping and 
weaving like a wounded bird, barely 
managing to keep above ground. The 
nose seemed to have a tendency to 
drop. Finally he slipped down below 
the hill — just there — and he didn’t 
rise again. 

“Here we are.” Sellon touched the 
flitter down on the hillside as light- 
ly as a feather. 

Mostyn looked around him. About 
a hundred yards away down the hill 
was the wreckage of a flitter. Near- 
by a group of men stood motionless 
in the rain. Their faces were with- 
out expression. One of them had a 
crude bandage round one arm. Their 
heads drooped helplessly. They 
seemed to be waiting for something 
to happen. They hardly stirred as the 
two approached. 

An icy dread washed over the head- 
master. He singled out one of the 
men. 

“He’s gone mad,” said the man. 
“Completely. He’s got a gun from 
somewhere. One of the chaps was 
wounded. We daren’t go near him.” 

“Where is he?” asked Mostyn. 

T he man glanced at him for a 
moment, then gestured up the 
hillside towards a pile of rocks. “Up 
there somewhere. Can’t tell you 
v/here exactly. He’s been moving 
around behind them. He warned us, 
but we thought he was only saying 
that — like a boy would. Then he shot 
Wilson, so we’ve kept back. He keeps 


68 MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


shouting something about 'hope 
you’re satisfied now.’ ” 

Mostyn started walking towards 
the pile of rocks. Sellon clutched at 
his arm, but he shook him off. "Come 
back, you fool ! He’s mad ! He’ll kill 
you!” He hesitated then made to fol- 
low him. 

A shot broke the silence of the 
hillside. 

Sellon stopped dead in his tracks. 
Mostyn walked on as if he hadn’t 
heard. 

A shrill voice floated down the 
hill to them. "Go back! Go back or 
I’ll shoot !” 

Silence. 

Mostyn walked on. 

"This is what you wanted, isn’t it? 
Just like in the story! Monster! Kill 
him! Hound him down! Death to the 
android-monsters! Death! Death!” 

Sellon shuddered. Tlie boy was 
mad! He watched Mostyn, waiting 
for the shot and the fall. 

Nothing happened. 

A score of yards away Mostyn 
halted. 

"Listen, son,” he said, "it’s me ! 
Mostyn! Come out and let me talk 
to you !” 

"Keep away !” 

Mostyn spread his arms wide. 
"Don’t you see who it is? It’s me! I 
want to help you, son. I understand 


what happened. Come out and we’ll 
talk it over — just you and me!” 

No reply. 

Sellon held his breath as Mostyn 
covered the remaining few yards. 
There was a sharp pain in his breast. 

When the shot came it was almost 
like a physical impact to Sellon. 

Mostyn stopped short. Sellon 
waited. But Mostyn did not fall. He 
seemed to have gone suddenly ber- 
serk. He scrambled wildly over the 
rocks and disappeared. 

Sellon paused. Only for a second, 
then he started to run too. The 
group of men came after him. 

When he found Mostyn, the scien- 
tist was holding the boy in his arms 
and muttering "My God” over and 
over again. The boy v/as quite dead. 

Sellon looked at the face of the 
man. Somehow it struck a chord in 
his memory. What w’as it? Sudden- 
ly he knev/. He had seen the same 
expression on the face of one of his 
masters after the man had received 
news of his son’s death in World 
War III. 

He knew then, and he turned 
away, his face ashen, motioning the 
rest to follow him. 

They went quietly back down the 
slope. Behind him he heard Mostyn 
muttering softly, "My God!” again 
and again. 


THE CATAAAA (by A. E. Van Vogt continued from page 46) 


sor of biology at State, aren’t you?” 

The other shook his head. "I was,” 
he said. "I should have followed the 
cat’s advice. But I felt it was im- 
portant to tell other people what had 
happened. I was dismissed after 
three months, and I won’t tell you 
what I’m doing now. But I must go 
on. The world must know about the 
weakness that makes us so vulnera- 
ble. Virginia? She married i pilot 
of big air firms. She fell for his 
line of self-dramatization.” 

He stood up. "Well, I guess I’ll be 
on my way, I've got a lot of bars to 
visit tonight.” 


When he had gone, Ted paused 
momentarily in his evening’s task of 
looking stupid. "There,” he said, "is 
a guy who really has a line. Just 
imagine. He’s going to tell that story 
about five times tonight. What a 
set-up for a fellow who wants to be 
the center of attention.” 

Myra giggled. Jones began to talk 
to Gord in his know-it-ail fashion. 
Gord said, "Glub!” every few sec- 
onds, just as if he was listening. 
Cathy put her head on the table and 
snored drunkenly. And Morton 
sagged lower and lower into his 
chair. 


AMAZING SCIENCE ADVENTURES 


Startling Glimpses of the World of the Future! 


Has ComrnKnicQtiofi Oi 

NTIL QUITE recently, any 
suggestion that there Nnight 
be life on the other planets 
of the solar system was likely to 
be treated with scorn. Almost any 
discussion on the subject went 
something like this: 

“Mars? Iviy dear fellow, the planet 
couldn't possibly support life! It 
possesses only half the diameter, 
and little more than a tench of the 
substance, of the EarUi. The surface 
is of similar composition to the 
Moon, that is, mostly craters and 
volcanic lava. There may be a 
certain amount of atmosphere ; bat 
if so, it is probably at the bottom of 
the craters. There is no direct 
evidence of water vapour in the 
atmosphere, although it may be 
present in small quantities; but 
there isn’t enough of either water 
or air to support life. 

“And anyway, why waste time 
discussing the matter? It’s not 
much use trying to communicate if 
there’s nobody there to answer. And 
as for visiting the place — why, the 
very idea is ridiculous! 

“What about the other planets? 
Even more unlikely, I should say. 
Mercury? Don’t you know that that 
planet is so close to the Sun that 
its surface temperature is always 
round about 675 degrees? And 
since it always presents the same 
face to the sun, the other side of 
the planet is freezing cold at all 
times. 

“Phew! Not for me, thanks! And 
I cannot imagine any other form of 
life existing in such extremes. And 
the same goes for all the other 
planets, only more so. Either they 
are too cold, or too hot, or there is 
no atmosphere; or their mass is so 
great that living forms would be 
crushed to a pulp. Jupiter, for 
instance, contains 317 times as much 
substance as the earth, and the 
gravitational pull would make it 
impossible for a man to crawl, let 
alone stand upright.” 

That imaginary conversation is of 
course a synthesis of the kind of 


er Plonets Been Established? 

arguments which were and are used 
against the suggestion that there 
might be life on other planets than 
our own. Only a few years ago— 
not so very long before Hiroshima 
in fact — these statements would have 
been trundled out as heavy artillery 
to demolish any belief that there 
could be life at least on Mars — the 
most likely planet to support it— 
or that communication of some sort 
might be feasible. 

Then came the release of atomic 
energy, and Man’s ideas and views 
altered almost overnight — especially 
as regards interplanetary travel. 
Already there are projects in hand 
v/hich will result in the launching 
of the first space ships within a 
few years at the most. Atomic 
energy will supply the fuel to hurl 
these vessels through space at 
several thousands of miles an hour: 
and what then will prevent them 
from reaching the moon and planets 
in course of time? Nothing save the 
unknown hazards — as yet — of space 
travel. 

But all this lies in the immediate 
future. What we are concerned with 
now, is to determine whether any 
attempts at communication with one 
or other of the planets have been 
already made; and if so, with what 
success? 

Research into the matter indicates 
that a number of persons have 
actually transmitted alleged mes- 
sages to Mars or some other extra- 
terrestrial destination: notably a 
Captain W who was a radio experi- 
menter in Somerset in 1939; and a 
Dr. M. R., of London, who sent a 
radio signal to Mars from Rugby 
in 1924. The latter alleged that he 
had established communication with 
a Martian female called Oumaruroo 
or some similar outlandish name. 
Captain W was rather more cau- 
tious, and contented himself with 
the statement that — “we have some 
justification for assuming that we 
can get Mars now.” It is not related 
whether he got any reply. 

These instances are given to show 



70 


MARVEL SCiENCE STORIES 


that since the advent of wireless 
telegraphy, man has been trying un- 
obtrusively but persistently to es- 
tablish contact with other worlds. It 
is worth bearing in mind that in 
1924, and again in 1939, the planet 
Mars was at its closest to Earth — 
some 36 millions of miles. 

An obvious question springs to 
the mind. If wireless messages were 
transmitted to Mars on these occa- 
sions, is there reliable external 
evidence that any signals were 
observed in reply, emanating from 
extra-terrestrial sources? 

The reply v/ould appear to be in 
the negative but it is interesting to 
note that in 1921 the late Marconi 
received and recorded definite sys- 
tematic impulses on a wavelength 
of 150,000 metres, coming out of 
space from the direction of Sagit- 
tarius; and in 1924 the New York 
newspapers for August of that year 
reported the following: MYSTERY 
DOTS AND DASHES WAS 
MARS SIGNALLING? WHAT 
THE PHOTOGRAPHIC FILM 
REVEALED. **The development of 
the photographic film of the radio 
signals for the 29 hour period while 
Mars was close to Earth, deepens 
the mystery of the dots and dashes 

★ ★ the ¥ 

A BOMBSHELL burst in 
Southern California recent- 
ly when noted author Wil- 
liam Vogt predicted the end of the 
world not with a bang but a whim- 
per. Addressing the Conference on 
Natural Resources, he forecast man- 
kind’s inevitable extinction just by 
‘Moing what comes naturally” even 
if an A-bomb, H-bomb or XYZ- 
bomb doesn’t atomize us. 

‘‘We are doing Nature to death.” 
he said; “her prodigality cannot go 
on much longer. If we are not to 
face starvation in the future, there 
must be an intensive world-wide 
conservation of natural resources 
coupled with a regulated birth- 
rate.” 

Vogt, who is the author of the 
book that has shocked thousands, 
“Road to Survival,” gave his for- 
mula for salvation in the sort of 
scientifictional sounding terms that 
one might expect to encounter in a 


heard by widely separated powerful 
stations. The film disclosed in 
black and white a regular arrange- 
ment of dots and dashes along one 
side. On the other, at about evenly 
spaced intervals, are curiously 
jumbled groups, each taking the 
form of a crudely drawn /ace.” 

Were these signals attempts to 
reply to messages sent from this 
Earth? Or were they independent 
efforts to attract the attention of 
this planet? 

It has been said that nad intelli- 
gible signals been transmitted from 
outer space, they would have been 
detected and decoded by experts 
long ago. That statement is advanced 
as proof that no attempts to com- 
municate with this planet have 
been made. But it ignores at least 
two possibilities. One, that commun- 
ication might have been established 
by means other than radio. The 
other, that general communication 
with this world might not be con- 
sidered desirable, except with speci- 
fic individuals. 

Judging by the state of our 
v/orld to-day, it is not unreasonable 
to suppose that other more civilized 
planets might possess prejudices.... 

P. E. JONES 

BOMB -A- ★ 

novel by science-fiction’s Vogt: We 
must find a balance and unity in th^ 
4th dimensional structure of bio- 
physical and cultural dependence of 
variables. 

Translated via the Semantikon, 
V/illiam Vogt’s summation means 
that our problem is one of planetary 
ecology, that our life-giving wealth 
depends on proper integration of 
soil and city life, of farming and 
factorying; the correlation of wind, 
rain, heat, snow, erosion, fertiliza- 
tion and similar factors with animal, 
vegetable and human life. Bionomics 
and economics. 

“V/hen any of these variables is 
too radically upset,” explained Vogt, 
“the v/hole structure of our life pat- 
tern is seriously endangered.” It is 
this uncontrolled imbalancing of 
nature that he sees as a surer if 
slower annihilator of mankind than 
a new kind of superbomb. 

F. ACKERMAN 


AMAZING SCIENCE ADVENTURES 


71 


^ ^ NO TIME LIKE THE FUTURE if if 


I N 1895 H.G. Wells imagined a 
time-machine; in 1950 Hobart 
Swisher built one. 

It is a long while since I read 
Wells’ romance of the Chronic Ar- 
gonauts, and I forget just how far 
forward they ventured — a million 
years or more? — pretty near to the 
end of time, as I recall. 

Hobart Swisher was fully as ven- 
turesome, but his crude and complex 
chronicar was capable of penetrating 
the future no farther than 3 years. 
This, he reasoned, would be enough. 
By 1953, time-travel principles 
should be understood sufficiently 
that he could move tihead say 25 
years in an improved model. 

And in the year 1978 or there- 
abouts, he should be able to find a 
time-machine capable of transport- 
ing him a hundred years ahead. 
After that, the leaps into posterity 
should begin to multiply by the 
thousands. 

Einstein would be engrossed by an 
explanation of the operation of 
Swisher's time-machine, but I doubt 
that it could be understood by you 
or me, so I will pass it by. Suffice 
it to say that the “autimeobile” 
moved its inventor ’round the clock 
as a motor car drives a person up 
the block. At the normal rate it 
would take him 12 hours to proceed 
from noon to midnight, but he could 


speed that up as a pedestrian may 
cover miles in minutes by stepping 
into an auto or plane. 

So Swisher sat in his hermetically 
sealed time-traveler and gave it the 
juice, and 36 months fled in the 
winking of an eye. I do not mean to 
imply that he fell asleep and 
dreamed this; it really happened. 
He found himself in approximately 
1953. 

Only the earth was not around, 
and this was very disconcerting, as 
you may well imagine. Somehow he 
seemed to have got transported in 
space as well as time. There he hung, 
like a gnat at night in the Yankee 
Stadium, and all around him was 
the ghastly silent, incredibly black 
gulf of interplanetary emptiness. 

Then he did a double-take: The 
largest body in the sky was — 
Saturn ! 

Saturn appeared to be about as far 
away as the moon, if one were view- 
ing our satellite from earth. 

Wait a minute ! 

That was the moon! 

What was it doing with a ring 
around it? 

When Swisher dropped back to 
autumn of 1951 and stopped and 
bought a newspaper, he learned the 
explanation of the lunar phenome- 
non in the headlines : 


ATOMIGEDDON AT HAND 


That ring around Luna was what 
used to be the earth, folks, before 
it was blov/n up by atom bombs and 
became a hat band for the man in 
the moon. 

Doc Swisher never told anybody 


about his autimeobile; he just got 
in it, set it for reverse, and didn’t 
stop till he’d been drawn back to 
the 19th Century: 1890, to be exact. 

Back to the Good Old Days I 

F. ACKERMAN 


ATTENTION STF FANS! DON’T MISS THE BIG NEW 1951 ISSUE OF MARVEL 
SCIENCE STORIES - A BRAND NEW LINEUP OF TOP-NOTCH STF AUTHORS! 



TEMPTRESS OF THE 

TIME FLOW by GARDNERS FOX 



WAS dead, legally. He stood in the bare roocn that was 
ia filled with a roseate, diffused light. There was a plain desk and 
chair in the far corner above a dark maroon rug on the iloor. Two 
richly colored prints hung across the room from him. He twisted the 


72 


Yes, they'd turned Trenton into a hardbitten space 
tramp, the breed that beat from Earth to Antares or 
any other of the seventeen star ports, peddling his 
disinter of his muscles to the highest bidder 


Could such a monster be loyal to the lovely, gentle 
golden girl who wanted peace for the universe? Would 
not he succumb finally to the 



WAS THIS THE END OF THE UNIVERSE? TIMELY, MIND- 
SHATTERING BOOK-LENGTH SPACE-ADVENTURE NOVEL! 


73 



74 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


brim of his space cap in nervous 
fingers. 

The girl receptionist came through 
the door and smiled at him. “The In- 
terrogator will see you now.” 

Trenton went past her, catching a 
faint tint of her expensive Venusian 
perfume. She smiled at him and 
closed the door as he went into the 
next room. 

“I’m here,” Trenton announced. 
There was a quaver in his voice. He 
didn’t like what they were going to 
ask him to do. It was an honor, in 
a way; but as far as he was con- 
cerned, they could keep their honors. 

The Interrogator looked up from 
a pile of papers he was fitting into a 
maroon folder. He v/as an Earth- 
man, with the deep tan of space on 
his cheeks and forehead. Auburn 
hair ringed his bald head. Dark blue 
eyes lifted from the papers to look 
at Trenton. 

“Sit down, captain. You’ve been 
through the Extermination Chamber 
Office?” 

“I’m dead, as far as the world's 
concerned,” said Trenton dully. 
“They took my papers, bankbook and 
will. I left a comjplete resume of my 
life. I filled out all the forms and 
signed all the papers.” 

The Interrogator coughed. “You 
left a good name behind you, cap- 
tain. Let’s see. Spaceship lieutenant 
at nineteen. Captain at twenty-three. 
You smashed the swamp piracies on 
Mars. You won the Space Medal last 
year for bravery over and above the 
call of duty. Right?” 

Trenton smiled wryly. “They’re 
mailing it to my sister.” 

“You don’t have a sister any more, 
captain. Not even a name. It's safest, 
that way. Then, too, there will be the 
plastic operation on your face. Any- 
body special vou’d care to resem- 
ble?” 

Trenton shook his head. He asked 
hesitantly, “I suppose there’s a rea- 
son for — all this?” 

The Interrogator leaned across the 
glass top of his twill desk. He rasped, 
“Reason? The best reason in the 
world. Any minute, any second. . .our 
universe is going to puff out of ex- 


istence! Is that reason enough?” 

Trenton managed to laugh. “Puff 
out? The universe? It’s a reason, but 
—do you really mean that, sir?” 

“I’m not in the habit of taking a 
man’s life and identity away from 
him and making him someone else, 
captain. I don’t hold my job to play 
at whimsy. I said what I mean and I 
mean what I said !” 

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” 

The Interrogator waved a hand. 
“All we know is that the trouble is 
somewhere in the Majorca region of 
Procyon-6. You remember Beutel? 
One of Mars’ greatest scientists. He 
found the trouble, warned us by 
space-beam, just before the natives 
got him.” 

“The natives, sir? You mean the 
trolyates, the dappled race of Proc- 
yon’s sixth planet.” 

“I don’t mean the trolyates. If I 
had, I’d've said so. I mean whatever 
Beutel called them in his spacebeam 
dispatch. We all thought he meant 
natives. Maybe he didn’t. But any- 
way, they got him.” 

“You’ve made other attempts,” 
Trenton said. He stated the words 
instead of asking a question. 

The Interrogator looked at Trenton 
oddly. He said, “We lost three space- 
battlers and four cruisers. We rushed 
land cavalry from Titon. We sent en- 
gineers. They never came back.” 

Trenton gaped at him. “So what 
in the name of Daneb do you want 
me to do?” 

The Interrogator laughed. “Solve 
the riddle. The Chiefs think one man 
could get in, learn where to go, 
what to be afraid of. If we could 
only get our men there, to take mea- 
surements and graphs! We’re like 
men who knov/ that a bomb is about 
to explode, but are tied to chairs and 
so are unable to stop it. You will go, 
Trenton? The Chiefs say your re- 
cord is the best one in all the Fleet.’* 

“Yes,” nodded Trenton, “I’ll go.” 

T hey sent him to the sur- 
geons, who did a plastic job on 
his face. Then he was shipped over 
to the psychiatric ward where men- 
tal experts took a dozen charts of 
him, hypnotized him, fed him full of 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


75 


planned neural-reaction impulses and 
turned him out — a different man. 

He was surprised, seeing himself 
in a mirror after they were through 
with him. He was looking at a total 
stranger. He was seeing a hardened 
space tramp, the kind that beat from 
Earth to Antares or any other of the 
seventeen star ports, peddling his 
disintoi or his muscles to fight pi- 
rates or alien soldiers. He was big 
and heavily muscled ; they hadn’t tak- 
en his body from him but they’d 
toughened it, made him bigger and 
stronger. His face was rugged, and 
ruthless brown eyes stared at his re- 
flection. Trenton felt a pulse of fear 
ripple in him. 

What would he be like — this dif- 
ferent Trenton? 

The Interrogator walked around 
him, nodding. “No one will know 
you. You can call yourself what you 
want. They’ve done a fine job. One 
of their best!’’ 

Trenton laughed harshly. “I’m dif- 
ferent. I’m not the careful, trained 
officer I was. I feel bubbly, like 
champagne. I could even — betray 
you.” 

The Interrogator was serious. “I 
know. It’s a risk we have to take. But 
we have to do it this way. We don’t 
know what we’re up against. We 
feel a tough character would have a 
better chance. If he has any chance 
at all!” 

They put him on a fast freighter 
booked for Majorca Port. He was 
listed as a worker, but they gave him 
books to study and a couple of di- 
sintoTs to play with, and a giant of a 
Martian to keep the fat off his six- 
foot frame. When he hit Procyon-6, 
he was as solid as bedrock. His eyes 
were keen and his brain was sharp, 
and he could split a bird on the wing 
with the blue disintor. 

Smoke curled up, blue and thin, 
from the red tip of a glowette. The 
girl with the red hair and the trans- 
parent thing that passed for a dress 
in the Majorca Port tavern laughed 
hoarsely. Her blue eyes glittered. 

“Three weeks hunting in the 
slums, and you haiven’t found it yet,” 
she mocked him. 


Trenton grinned wolfishly. “I’ll 
find it. Somebody knows what hap- 
pens to our engineers. Somebody has 
to send them — wherever they go.” 

The woman blew smoke at him. Her 
mouth twisted amusedly. She asked, 
“What can you offer for — informa- 
tion ?” 

Trenton laughed inside his ribs, but 
he made his face as wooden as the 
painted tokens hung on the walls of 
the tavern. He turned and watched 
the gyrations of the nearly naked 
dancer atop one of the barrrus-wood 
tables. When he spoke, it was out of 
the corner of his mouth. “What do 
you want?” 

She ran a hand up her other bare 
arm. She whispered, looking at the 
dancer. "Safe transportation back to 
Earth.” 

Trenton lifted his eyebrows. 
“You’re a star-deport? What bounced 
you off Terra? Drugs? A man?” 

“Never mind the details,” she 
whispered harshly. “Do you want the 
information? Beutel used to come 
in here once in a while for a few 
glasses of procystal. He took one too 
many, one night. I helped him to his 
apartments. A drunk man tells you a 
lot of things.” 

She looked around at the crowd 
fearfully. “If emyone knew about it, 
they’d find me without eyes and 
tongue on the Hell Desert out be- 
yond the Port. I’ve been so scared — ” 

“Yeah, yeah. Forget your worries. 
I’ll deal with you. Nobody’ll know. 
I’ll write you an order on the Com- 
mandant. Take it to him. He’ll fix 
you up with a new wardrobe and a 
compartment on the Star Queen.” 

Her blue eyes drank him up. A 
flush of color came into the pow- 
dered whiteness of her cheeks. 
“You’ll do all that.’” 

“For the right information.” 

The woman leaned across the 
wooden table. “Play up to me. I’ll 
tell you on the way . . . but you have 
to convince these people . . . there 
may be spies. Funny things have hap- 
pened since Beutel kicked off.” 

She was pretty. It wasn’t too hard 
to do what must be done, to con- 
vince the spacemen and dappled tiol- 


76 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


yates that Trenton was getting high 
on the pTOcystal. In the middle of a 
long kiss, Trenton kicked back his 
chair and lifted the woman to her 
feet. 

“Le’s go,” he muttered, and flung 
a handful of bills on the wet top 
of their table. 

They staggered out into the cold 
night as a burst of drunken laughter 
followed them. 

T renton went by flier as far 
into the desert as he dared. He 
shoveled sand on the ship and left 
it just another dune. He went on 
foot into the blinding inferno of 
heat and sand, a water carafe and a 
packet of food capsules tucked in his 
belt. 

He threw his compass away when 
he saw the black splotch on the hori- 
zon, two days later. 

It hung low, like a black sail belly- 
ing in the wind. All around it, like 
the frame for a black negative, stood 
the ruined columns and tumbled 
stone blocks of an ancient Thaman 
temple. Six thousand years ago, a 
lost race had worshipped and sacri- 
ficed to its forgotten gods, among 
those ornamented columns and por- 
ticoes. Now the white pillars were 
bare of paint, smooth and rounded as 
by a million sandstorms. And beyond 
the white platform, as if balanced on 
its edge, stood the black splotch. 

Its blackness quivered and shift- 
ed, like a hole cut in space that was 
torn by the terrible storms that 
whipped between the stars. It whis- 
pered sibilantly, as if linen were 
being stroked across linen. 

Trenton went up the tumbled steps 
and onto the broad white platform. 
He approached very close to the bil- 
lowing splotch. 

He called softly, “I’ve come from 
Beutel. Can you hear me — over 
there?” 

There was no answer. He had 
scarcely expected any, but he had 
made the effort. The redhead in the 
tavern told him that once in a while 
the other ones watched the black 
hole, that once in a while they 
showed themselves. They had shown 
themselves to Beutel: had shown 
themselves and told him things. 


That was why Beutel let go of him- 
self with the procystal. 

The redhead had told him, “Beu- 
tel says they can cross from the 
other side, but not from our side. If 
you were to attempt to go through, 
you’d be snuffed out. By what? Only 
Beutel knew and he didn’t tell me. 
Even when he was drunk, he was 
afraid to say why. He only whis- 
pered once, ‘To think it’s only that. 
All along our concepts were wrong. 
It isn’t the way we think it is at 
all. It’s entirely different!’ That’s 
what he’d say.” 

And that was all the talking the 
redhead would do, though Trenton 
fed her all the rare Pakaris ’79 that 
she could down. 

Trenton walked around the ruined 
temple. He took out his disintor and 
flipped off the safety catch and bol- 
stered it. He smoked a ^lowette un- 
til he burned the flesh on his fin- 
gertips. He waited. 

OMEONE from over there would 
see him, if he waited long 
enough. 

He saw the face just as the huge, 
whitish mass of Procyon dropped to- 
ward the horizon. The blackness 
stirred and swirled, and there was 
a cowl of some dark material; and 
under the shadow of the cowl, livid 
brown eyes burning at him, blazing 
with some strange, urgent message. 
The face itself was thin and pasty- 
white, as though touched by the hand 
of some lingering death. 

The lips opened and moved, but 
there was no sound. 

Then the face was gone. 

Instead, a girl was stepping 
through the blotch of blackness, onto 
the flat, crumbled stone of the arch- 
way. She was not as tall as he, by 
half a foot. Her eyes were violet 
under long, yellow lashes. Her thick 
hair was swept in twisted plaits on 
top her shapely head. A thin white 
garment, moulded to her body by 
the breeze, was looped over one 
white shoulder and down under the 
armpit of her other arm. It was gir- 
dled by a thin belt of golden links. 

She whispered, staring at him, 
“You are one of them, aren’t you? 
Like Leibel and Cravath? Mani said 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


77 


you were ...” 

Leibel and Cravath were fleet men. 
Commanders, both of them. Trenton 
had known them, and served under 
Cravath in his lieutenancy. He said 
swiftly, *T know them. Where are 
they? What took them? What — ?” 

“Drayatha has them,” the girl said. 
A cloud of hate rested on her face 
at mention of that name, then fad- 
ed. “She took them as she took others 
who find this Blotch. Those she 
cannot use, she destroys. She has 
killed many. You see, Drayatha is 
Min-dir, and heiress to the Altar. 
She hopes to use the Altar to make 
herself the mightiest weapon ever 
devised.” 

She paused a moment, put a hand 
to her yellow hair. She smiled, “I 
am Kiryla, of the Llinana-kir. We 
are the people of the hilltops. We 
grow food and make clothing for 
the Min-dir.” 

Trenton said softly, “So Drayatha 
has .them.” He saw the hate-mist 
cloud her violet eyes again. 

“Yes! She and bloody Fheg. They 
have the people of your race. One 
by one they captured them, as they 
came to explore the Clot. Beutel 
first. After him, those who came 
seeking him.” 

Trenton took out a glowette and 
lighted it. Blowing smoke, he 
watched the shadows of the temple 
columns lengthen along the tumbled 
stones. He asked, “Is there any way 
to — help them?” 

Kiryla brooded, thrusting her low- 
er lip outward, lowering her long 
lashes. “No way, unless you rouse 
the Llinana-kir.” 

He faced her; asked again, “Will 
you help me rouse them?” 

The girl faced him calmly. The 
violet eyes clouded with the raw 
hate in their depths. Her voice 
cracked as she whispered, “I will 
help you. Kiryla will do what she 
may — and Kiryla has power ! Only 
by overthrowing the Min-dir can we 
strike at the Altar. At Drayatha and 
her Altar.” 

“An altar? She’s worshipped, then. 
Like a goddess?” 

Kiryla smiled, and the twisting of 
her lips made Trenton shudder. “The 
Altar is what makes — that!” Her 


hand gestured at the black blotch. 
“She calls it a weapon.” 

Puzzled, Trenton followed her up 
the flat stones. She put out her 
hand, wrapped warm fingers around 
his. “Step swiftly. Mani will help us. 
Come. . 

It was like going through a dark 
cloud. Just one step forward, and 
the ruined Thaman temple was gone, 
and all around them were green 
fields and browsing goats. A ring 
of fir trees towered in the distance, 
forming a dark green band that 
wound up over the hill. Higher up, 
where faint traces of snow still 
lingered, there were slender build- 
ings of sedge color. They resembled, 
to Trenton’s eyes, nothing more than 
the flat, long dwellings of the an- 
cient Martians. 

Kiryla lifted a tiny golden whistle 
to her lips; blew lilting notes from 
it. She dropped the whistle and 
smiled, “The Llinana-kir will come 
soon. They will come and take us 
to their stronghold. There we will 
plan, with Mani.” 

HE LLINANA-KIR were tall 
men, straight of back and mus- 
cular of arm and leg. They rode an 
animal unlike any Trenton had ever 
seen. It seemed a cross between a 
horse and a gazelle. Four-legged, its 
shapely head was a bloom with 
sharp, ugly horns. Its tail was stum- 
py, and hung with leathern thongs 
at the ends of which were attached 
circular knives. 

A half-naked man spoke to Kiryla 
in a bubbling language that ccwisist- 
ed of trills and vowels. For the first 
time, Trenton realized that Kiryla 
had spoken to him in his own 
tongue. As the man swooped from 
his saddle and waved Trenton to- 
ward it, the Earthman smiled at 
Kiryla, “What speech is that?” 

Kiryla laughed, “It is the common 
tongue that evolved out of the past. 
Some of it is your language, some 
Martian, some Procyonic. We are 
taught dead languages here. That is 
why I know — yours.” 

Trenton grinned, “Dead language? 
I’m as alive as you, and fifty billion 
people where I come from speak it 
better than I do.” 



78 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


Kiryla thrust out her lower lip, 
brooded at him sadly. She shook her 
head until the golden plaits shook 
loose. “I was born seven thousand 
centuries after you, man of Beutel’s 
race. The year is — as you reckon 
time — 703,172. . .anno Domini.” 

Trenton staggered, closed a hard 
hand down on the metal pommel of 
the leather saddle. “Seven hundred 
thousand — you're joking.” 

“Mani will tell you,” Kiryla 
laughed. “He will reveal everything 
to you. Of the Llinana-kir, Mani is 
the wisest. He knows everything.” 

Trenton lifted himself into the 
saddle on the /efafa/, gathered up 
the reins. The Llinana-kir ranged 
themselves in single file, jabbed at 
their mounts’ flanks with sandaled 
heels. The jelalais were light and 
sure of foot, and fast as the fleetest 
Martian sea bottom-deer. The wind 
whipped around Trenton’s browned 
cheeks, played easily across the 
leather of his space-jacket. His bol- 
stered disinter bobbed on his thigh. 

They flashed up over the brow of 
the hill, heading for the upper reach- 
es of the mountain. Kiryla called 
over to him, “We go fast lest the 
Min-dir raid us. Since Drayatha 
rules, they needed — amusement.” 

Up here, the firs grew fantastic- 
ally tall, verdured dark-green, tow- 
ering into low-scudding clouds. Be- 
neath their far-spread branches the 
Llinana-kir raced their mounts. Over 
needle-strewn forest floor their 
hooves flew. Into the scented cool- 
ness of mountain woods they ran. 

Trenton saw the chalet a mile 
away, low and green, with wide win- 
dows and broad chimneys. Its shape 
and color harmonized with the 
broad, low bushes that clustered be- 
side it. From the air, it was hidden 
by the giant firs. 

A man in a green cloak came out 
of the wide doorway, stood looking 
at the file of racing felafafs. He 
lifted a white hand to throw back 
the cowl. Serene of face, he stood si- 
lent and still, waiting. Without 
knowing, Trenton felt him to be 
Mani. 

Kiryla cried out, “Wise one! I 
have come — with a member of the 
ancient race. I found him on the 


other side of the Clot, as you fore- 
told.” 

Trenton swung down from the sad- 
dle. He stepped toward the old man, 
found himself staring into old eyes 
that twinkled with understanding 
and merriment. Mani said, making a 
polite gesture with his hand, “Take 
welcome here, man. We have much 
— and little.” 

Trenton said, “I have come for 
Beutel, to find the danger he dis- 
covered. To cure it by ending it, if 
I can.” 

Mani smiled wearily. “The danger 
is Drayatha. And the Altar. What 
it is — only she and Theg know. Ex- 
cept that it has to do with — Time.” 

Trenton looked his surprise. 
“Time?” 

“Time, yes. The hours and the 
days and the years. What do your 
people say of Time? Do they say it 
is a force, a living thing that eats 
at the bowels of men and machines?” 

“Rot,” Trenton said, without 
thinking. 

Mani went on gravely, “What 
makes metal in water rust? Not the 
water, for if that alone did it, then 
all metal in all water would rust. Ox- 
idation, you will say. But something 
must be added to metal and water. 
Time must be added. Time and me- 
tal cmd water equal rust. Is it not 
so? You agree. Then time is r. force, 
a catalyst.” 

Trenton shook his head dazedly. 
“Time — a force.” 

“It is hard to believe. It changes 
your concepts. Think of Time as a 
flow of energy, measured by clocks 
and watches, sun-dials and burning 
candles. Drayatha would tap that 
flow of energy, build herself and the 
Min-dir strange weapons that would 
use all time as their fuel. A weap- 
on with such energy behind it — 
would be the greatest ever invented 
by a human race.” 

“What would Drayatha conquer?” 
wondered Trenton. 

“All history,” said Mani softly. 
“You and your civilization among — 
others. If Time is a flow of energy, 
perhaps Drayatha could reverse it, 
move backward in it. Conquer. Cap- 
ture. Make herself and the Min-dir 
great.” 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


79 


The tired old eyes studied Tren- 
ton. Mani gathered his green cloak 
tighter around his thin shoulders. 
He smiled wryly, “Stop Drayatha. 
Stop her — if you can.” 

CHAPTER II 

R ed light nickered over 

his eyeballs. A hot torch 
touched his chest. Trenton 
rolled over, sat up. The flames were 
high, leaping about whiteness, swirl- 
ing. The flames were not fire, but 
hair. Red hair. And the whiteness 
was a face. 

“He stirs, Theg. Touch him again 
with your blade.” 

Trenton saw a red gash in his 
chest where a swordpoint had cut. 
He looked away from it toward the 
red of the woman’s hair. At the red 
of her sultry mouth. At the slant 
eyes where green orbs glinted with 
amusement. A mailed skirt, slit up 
the legs and thonged with scarlet 
leather and a plasticine bolero gave 
her a raffish look, 

Drayatha. Her face was lovely 
and — 

Evil! 

She laughed into his eyes, mock- 
ingly, She said, “Theg!” 

A big man with a growth of black 
beard lumbered from the shadows 
flung by the little campfire. A nak- 
ed sword glistened in his hairy paw. 
He put it toward Trenton, thrust 
down. 

With his wrist, Tenton hit the 
sword, turned it away. He rolled sud- 
denly from his pine-needle bed, hit 
the big man’s ankles hard and 
dumped him. Theg was a giant, but 
Trenton was a mountain catling. 
Trenton was astride the blackbeard 
then, turning him with a twist of 
his arm that made the joint rasp in 
its socket. Trenton wrapped browned 
legs about the man’s middle and 
locked them. The muscles stood out 
on his naked biceps. 

“I can break his arms easily,” he 
told Drayatha who was staring at 
him with surprise and a cruel delight 
in her green eyes. 

“Break them,” she taunted him. 
“Then when they are mended. I’ll 
give you to Theg for his — entertain- 


ment. Theg is not as subtle as I. He 
— hurts.” 

It was checkmate. Trenton could 
see Kiryla and three of the Llinana- 
kir in the shadows under the tall 
pines, ringed by Min-dir cavalrymen. 
Their arms were tightly bound. In 
the distance, where Mani’s house 
had stood on the hillside, was a 
chaos of red flame and ruin. He 
wondered whether the old man lay 
in that fire, a blackened cinder. 

Drayatha smiled. “I have my spies. 
When I learned that Mani and Kiry- 
la were entertaining a man of the 
past, I hurried as swiftly as my je- 
lafaf could carry me. You see, the 
Llinana-kir are not proper hosts for 
a man like you. Only the Min-dir 
can be that.” 

"I prefer the Llinana-kir.” 

“Let Theg up. If you are stub- 
born — ” 

Drayatha shrugged her white 
shoulders. Her green eyes glittered. 
She was amused, because she held 
the top cards. Trenton knew that 
one of the Min-dir could blow the 
top of his head off, from the shad- 
ows under the firs. 

He rolled off. Theg got to his 
feet and shook himself. His dark 
eyes were pits of smouldering rage. 
He growled, “Give him to me, Dra- 
yatha. I’ve never asked for anything. 
Just that. Him!” 

Drayatha touched the big man’s 
arm with her fingertips. Theg drew 
back as she stepped forward. She 
came close to Trenton, looked up 
into his hard brown eyes. 

“This man interests me, Theg. I’ve 
never seen anyone do that to you. If 
he could down you, he might do — 
other things. We need a man to help 
us, Theg.” 

“Not him,” the giant rasped. Tren- 
ton saw the bitter hate that had 
been born of a shattered pride. 
Trenton grinned at him and the 
veins stood out on Theg’s neck as he 
fought for control. 

“Who are you, man of beyond?” 
Drayatha asked. 

“Nobody,” said Trenton, remem- 
bering the Extermination Chamber 
and the Interrogator vagpiely, as 
something glimpsed afar off, in a 
forgotten dream. “Just a star-tramp. 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


A hireling. My disintor goes to the 
highest bidder.** 

Drayatha made a moue with her 
red mouth, head aslant, green eyes 
roving his hard face, the span of his 
shoulders, the muscled frame of him. 
His clothes were plain and un- 
marked : a plain space-jacket and 
slacks, tightly fitted to his body. 
The disintor hung by a worn leather 
belt in a well-oiled holster. 

“I'll bid for you, then!” the girl 
laughed softly. The blood thrummed 
in Trenton’s ears at the odd allure 
of it. “A thousand tolans. In solid 
platinum! There! Will you wear 
my Snake?” 

Her white fingers lifted a silver 
serpent, cunningly wrought and 
carved, that hung by a gossamer 
chain between her breasts. The 
snake-eyes were 'carbuncles, glitter- 
ing coldly. But the green eyes 
laughing silently up at him were 
warm, alive. 

T here was something that 
Trenton should remember, some- 
thing out of his past: a duty to be 
performed. There had been an In- 
terrogator, yes. That much he faint- 
ly recalled. The Interrogator had 
sent him on a mission. But there had 
also been a white-walled room: a 
psychiatric ward. Men in spotless 
uniforms had worked on his mind a 
long time, in that dream. Before he 
went into that room he had been 
honored, proud to hold his head up. 
Now — 

Now he did not know. It was as 
if a stranger had slipped into the 
muscles of him, along the veins and 
the arteries, into the very nerves 
themselves. Only one thing stood 
out. His name. 

“I am Trenton,” he murmured da- 
zedly. His eyes went past Drayatha, 
sought and found the golden Kiryla. 
She stood proudly, chin upthrust. 
Her eyes blazed fire at him. 

And Trenton sneered at her look. 
He felt bubbly, exhilarated. No wom- 
an could tell him what to do! He 
was a nobody, a sword-seller. 

“I'll take your bid,” he said to 
Drayatha. “You won’t regret it.” 

She put out a hand, ran it along 
his hard forearm. Trenton tingled 


as her fingers lingered. She whis- 
pered mockingly, “I’d better not!” 

Drayatha swung about, clapped 
soft hands. Her cavalrymen leaped 
to saddles, jerked on the ropes that 
held their captives. “We ride to 
Min-dir! At the gallop. Mani ex- 
caped us — as usual! Next time we 
ride, we’ll get him.” 

The Min-dir waited impatiently as 
Kiryla and the captured Llinana-kir 
mounted on their own jelafafs. The 
cavalrymen shouted oaths, reined in 
rearing mounts. Then they were off, 
and Trenton watched the dirt leap 
and drop beneath the pounding 
hooves. 

He turned to Drayatha, found her 
brooding into the distance, lower 
lip outthrust petulantly. She felt his 
eyes on her, slid her own eyes side- 
ways. impishly. 

“We’re in enemy territory, Tren- 
ton. The Llinana-kir hate the Min- 
dir. A roving band of hunters 
might — attack us.” 

Trenton touched the smooth han- 
dle of his blue disintor. It was an 
unconscious gesture. They hadn’t 
overlarded his subconscious. A man 
trained to battle would seek reas- 
surance from the hang of his wea- 
pon. The move raised him a notch 
in Drayatha’s eyes. 

She laughed, “Would you like to 
see the Altar, Trenton? My Altar? 
I’ll show it to you.” 

The blood pounded in his veins, 
hearing that. That was his mission 
— to destroy the Altar! It threatened 
his world, the world wherein he had 
dreamed. He cried out hoarsely, 
“Show me.” 

Dra5"atha swung up into a jew- 
elled saddle, swayed to the curvet- 
ting of her dappled jelafaf. Her 
green eyes mocked him. “Do you 
know what the Altar is, Trenton? 
You are eager, but you cannot know, 
unless Mani told you. Did he?” 

Trenton shook his head, swinging 
into the leather saddle, heeling his 
saddler forward. Theg loomed dark 
and brooding to one side of him, 
never taking his eyes from Trenton’s 
hands. 

Drayatha said softly, “The Altar 
has a history. To understand it, you 
must know that history. We arc 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


81 


part of what was once the Earth 
Empire. Thousands of centuries 
ago a little planet called the Earth 
discovered how to travel in space. 
They send their ships throughout 
their own solar system, then into 
other systems.” 

Trenton nodded. He knew all this. 
That dream of his — they hadn’t tak- 
en away his knowledge at any rate. 
He smiled, “That Empire lasted for 
at least seven thousand years. I was 
in the employ of — the Fleet — a long 
time ago.” 

“How long ago even you can’t 
imagine, Trenton. That Earth Em- 
pire lasted two hundred thousand 
years. Their spacers sent luxuries 
to all corners of the universe. From 
Deneb to Sirius, their colonists 
built cities. And then the reaction 
came. Too much ease of living, too 
much of everything. The people de- 
cayed. Only on the outermost plan- 
ets of the systems, where there still 
remained animals and savages to 
fight, did the men retain their man- 
hood. 

^^rw^HE EMPIRE degenerated. 

M. It took fifty thousand years, 
but after that, there was no Empire. 
Only planet-states remained. Cut off 
from Earth, dependent on them- 
selves for support. Here on Procyon, 
a bloody revolution began. It was 
a glorified civil war, between men 
and the robots that served them. For 
thousands of years the battle went 
on. Great scientists on both sides 
were killed. The people took to liv- 
ing in caves. Fighting on the run. 
Cooking when they could. 

“The humans had one advantage. 
They could propagate. To one of 
the scientists a child was born who 
was destined to be the greatest 
scientist the Min-dir ever knew. His 
name was Nannar-kir. He found a 
way to smash the robots, to set up 
organization and a sort of culture. 
He recognized two basic types of 
people: those who worked in the air. 
those who worked in confinement. 
The farmers, the hunters, the build- 
ers — to them he gave the wide 
spaces of the planet, with a duty to 
hunt and feed and clothe the others. 
To the scientists, the clericals, the 


business men — he gave the cities. 
The Llinana-kir and the Min-dir. 

“Before he died, Nannar-kir dis- 
covered Time. He found out that it 
was a force, a living, vital thing. 
Frightened, he locked his discover- 
ies away in the Altar. But he left 
the key with his son, to be handed 
down to his son's sons. And to make 
doubly sure that they would not be 
tempted beyond their means to re- 
sist, he placed the Altar in the heart 
of the Llinana-kir’s lands.” 

The hooves of the jelafetfs 
pounded across scrub-spotted plains. 
In the distance a new fringe of 
mountains flung their fir-topped 
breasts at a cloud-pocked sky. Dray- 
atha lifted a white arm and pointed 
at the firs. 

“Over there, Trenton. In those 
mountains. That is where the Altar 
is. For a long time the Llinana-kir 
and the Min-dir were friends. But 
with the passage of the centuries — 
aie, there were many centuries to 
follow Nannar-kir before Drayatha! 
— the Min-dir and Llinana-kir grew 
apart. Jealousies. Murders. Hate 
grew. Now all that keeps Min-dir 
and Llinana-kir from each other’s 
throat is — my power !” 

Trenton saw the pride that etched 
itself on the girl’s face, saw the lift 
of her breasts beneath the plasti- 
cine bolero. 

Trenton said drily, “If you have 
so much power — and the Altar — 
what’s stopping you?” 

“The Altar is locked — locked in 
Time! Aie^ if the Altar were all 
mine — everything would be mine. 
Trenton ! With the Altar goes god- 
hood! But Nannar-kir was wise. He 
enclosed the Altar in a sheath of 
Time itself. When that sheath wears 
off, then the Altar will be open to 
me. And when that day comes — ” 

Drayatha broke off, urged her 
mount closer to Trenton. Her hand 
rested on his naked forearm. She 
breathed, “Be my man, Trenton. 
Then when my day comes, you can 
have what you will. Anything!” 

Her eyes were promising pools, 
uplifted to his. Trenton let himself 
sink in them, slid down into the ver- 
dant coldness that sparkled, changed 
to bright green flames, to fire. His 


82 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


arms were out, half-raising her from 
the saddle, crushing her against his 
chest. He mocked her, looking into 
those hot eyes, “You promise what 
you can’t give, Drayatha. What are 
you afraid of? You promise when 
you should demand. You hear me? 
Demand — like this !“ 

His mouth burned on hers in a 
savage kiss. Faintly he heard Theg 
bellow; felt Drayatha stiffen, lift 
both arms to fight him off. And 
then — suddenly — she was limp, re- 
turning his kiss with both arms 
locked about his middle. 

He let her go, still watching her 
eyes. He murmured, “Why are you 
promising, Drayatha? Why can’t you 
— demand?” 

She shuddered. She whispered, 
“The Llinana-kir! If ever they 
united against me — my Min-dir 
calvary would be like leaves on a 
windswept hilltop! That’s why I 
need you, Trenton — because the girl 
Kiryla — loves you !” 

Trenton grinned. Drayatha slid 
her eyes sideways at him, sullenly. 
She spat, “She does! She does! I saw 
it in her eyes when she looked at 
you. She’d do anything for you! 
Even to— urging the Llinana-kir to — 
aid me when the Altar comes free 
of the Time sheath. The Llinana-kir 
worship her. She’s the last descend- 
ant of the old nobility that chose to 
go out with the hunters and farmers 
rather than stay with the scientists 
in the cities. They look up to her, do 
what she tells them. Is love strong- 
er than hate, Trenton? Her love for 
you — ^would she ally her Llinana-kir 
to you as you allied yourself with 
me? I wonder!” 

They rode on, up the fir-clad 
slopes, along the stony ridges. 

T he altar burst on them as 
they came out of a clump of as- 
pens. It was long and low and flat, 
with spires at the four ends, and a 
faery delicacy in the stonework 
around the sides. It was architecture 
of a thousand planets and a hundred 
thousand years. It combined Martian 
motif with P.rocyonic execution. 
Earthen roof with Sirian towers. It 
took away the breath with beauty, 
and returned it with simplicity. 


Trenton rubbed his eyes, looking 
at it. The longer he looked, the 
stronger became the blur that sur- 
rounded the Altar. It quivered and 
shook and — was still. It was a haze, 
a mist, a fog. It shrouded and it re- 
vealed. 

Drayatha whispered, “The Time 
sheath. The Altar is there, but we 
see it through the sheath. Some day 
— soon — the haze will go. Then TII 
enter it, Trenton. Then the wholi 
course of history will — be mine!” 

Trenton scowled, looking at her. 
He muttered, “But the Blotch! Mani 
said — ” 

Drayatha shrugged. “There is a 
miniature Altar in Min-dir. It per- 
mits contacts with the past and fu- 
ture. It made the Blotch, which is 
in reality only a Time-bridge be- 
tween your world and mine. But the 
model is not as strong as the true 
Altar. It’s only a toy.” 

Trenton held out his hand, grin- 
ning: baring strong v'hite teeth 
against the tan of his face. A toy? 
By Deneb, but a toy would fit his 
hard palm. He curled his fingers and 
squeezed. 

Four times had the sun lifted and 
set beyond the sprawling white city 
of the Min-dir. From the chambers 
hung with golden cloth and platinum 
rods that Drayatha had given him. 
Trenton brooded over a crystal gob- 
let of frothla. Four days, three 
nights. And no nearer to the Altar 
than when Kiryla had found him! 

He swept the goblet from the 
metal table; heard its musical tinkle- 
akkle as it crashed on the tilings. 
He put his big hands to his fore- 
head and pressed. 

He groaned, “Thry d^d too good 
a job on me! I — I can't remember 
much, any more. The dream is fad- 
ing. There was an Interrogator — I 
was a Fleet officer, hand-picked for 
a job. To find out v.'hat was behind 
the Blotch and — smash it. 

“They sent me to the psych v/ard. 
That was a mistake, because they 
gave me a different personality 
and — 

“I’m afraid of it!” 

Trenton got to his feet. He could 
see his big body reflected from a 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


83 


wall glass : brown of face and body, 
big-mviscled. A close-cropped head, 
and a tight mouth. Hard brown 
eyes, that slanted slightly — cruelly! 
He sneered at the white stuff gird- 
ing his loins, at the cloak dependent 
from his jerkined shoulders. He 
should be wearing leather and bat- 
tle-sandals. 

The door opened behind him. 
Trenton did not turn, but a stray 
gust of wind carried past his nos- 
trils. Perfume: Drayatha’s sweet 
stuff. Knowing her eyes were on 
him, he posed and preened before 
the glass; preened and walked and — 

Leaped ! 

His hands caught and lifted her. 
neld her helpless in that first flush 
of surprise. His right hand was at 
her white throat, fingers sinking 
into the soft white flesh. Her green 
eyes flared at him. 

“Drayatha! The Llinana-kir fear 
you. The Min-dir worship you, but 
they’re afraid, too. One man does 
not fear you. Trenton!” 

“Let me go,” she hissed. “I'll have 
you — *' 

His fingers tightened. She 
coughed, choked. “No threats, witch! 
Or your neck snaps — crrrk!** He 
laughed and let her go suddenly. 
She staggered and almost fell. Her 
cheeks were white. 

“I should have killed you,” he told 
her evenly. “Killed you and de- 
stroyed your Altar! Part of me tells 
me that. And another part of me — a 
part that is growing daily strong- 
er — ” 

The woman laughed and stretched. 
She whispered, thrilling *-o the gleam 
of his dark eyes, “What does the 
strong part of you say, Trenton?” 

He turned away toward the white 
roofs of the city sprawling below his 
balconied v/indows. He fought for 
control, fought to hold back the 
seething pride and force inside him. 

A soft hand slid over his arm. A 
voice whispered. “Let me tell you, 
Trenton. The other part says — take 
this v/oman. Take her and rule her 
— and her Altar! Be a conqueror be- 
side whose name the sound of Na- 
poleon and Kravman and Yoll arc 
babies’ lispings!” 


F aintly, up from below, a 
harp’s strings twanged. Their 
melody was rich and heady, gay and 
resonant. . Those strings plucked 
matching chords deep inside Tren- 
ton’s chest; plucked and strummed 
and roused the sleeping dreamer. 

“Xiryla!” he said softly. “She’s 
the ansY/er to the whole thing. 
Through her, I can win over the 
Llinana-kir. You said so yourself, 
witch.’' 

The redheaded Drayatha dug sharp 
nails into his naked arm. She hissed, 
“By Yoll! I offered you myself 
— not her. The Altar is mine. Mine, 
Trenton I It can be yours only if 
you — belong to me I” 

He laughed harshly, freely. The 
dream was fading faster, faster. No 
more a man with a mission; instead, 
a freebooter who took what his own 
strong hands closed on. 

He reached out and caught the 
redhead. He whispered into her 
mouth. “I belong to no one, Drava- 
tha. Take me to Kiryla. After 
that — ” His rriouth burned hers. Dra- 
yatha sighed, stirred free. 

“Come,” she told him. 

Kiryla was alone in the fountain- 
dotted garden when Trenton en- 
tered, waving Drayatha aside. She 
was bent above a shallow pool, idly 
making ripples. Whirling at his 
footsteps, she flung back her yel- 
low head; eyed him coolly. 

She was silent, proud. A pulse 
hammered where her throat met the 
first swells of her breasts. 

Trenton said, “I’ve come to you. 
I've been lucky. I’ve had to act a 
part and I did.” 

Tli.?t roused her. brought her to 
her feet, both hands trembling, 
reaching out to his. She whispered, 
blue eyes hunting his features. 
“You’ve changed! They — sh^ did 
something, to you.” 

H'* shook his head irritably. “No. 
no! Not changed. I managed to see 
you alone, like this. Can we escape? 
Is there any way?” 

Her lips were sad. “No one ever 
escaped from Drayatha.” 

“What about— the toy Altar?” 
“Zann! It’s a way, of course — ^but 
a dangerous one. You see, the Altar 
is well guarded and — oh, it’s stupid 


84 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


even to think of it.” 

“Go on! Guards. What else?” 

“It’s a long path from the Altar 
to the hill country of the Llinana- 
kir. The Altar deepens into a Ion? 
tunnel bored a thousand centuries 
ago by Nannar-kir’s orders. The tun- 
nel leads past depths that — border on 
— on madness. Beasts. Perhaps rene- 
gade Min-dir.” 

“And beyond the tunnel?” 

She laughed softly. “If we win 
out of the tunnel, Mani will find 
us.” 

Trenton nodded. There was a way 
— winning Mani and the Llinana-kir 
to his banner, taking Kiryla for his 
own. And — the Altar! 

Kiryla shivered, staring up at him. 
“You frighten me, Trenton, when 
your eyes blaze yellow-brown like 
that. They are cold and hard. Ruth- 
less !” 

He smiled down at her. She 
nestled against him, blushing. She 
whispered, “I liked you the way you 
were when I first saw you.” 

He tilted up her chin with a fin- 
gertip, “And — as I am now?” 

She looked deep into his eyes and 
nodded. 

“Good. Be here tonight at the 
hour of the Snake. I’ll get away, 
come for you. Be ready!” 

Lifting his eyes suddenly, Tren- 
ton caught a glimpse of red hair be- 
hind a prayaf/ius-bush ; a glimpse of 
red hair that could have been only 
an excited imagination, or — Draya- 
tha! 

CHAPTER in 

ran RENTON lifted himself from 

H the perfumed cushions. Dray- 
atha lay beside him, red loair 
sprayed fanlike about a white pil- 
low. Her red mouth mocked, and 
lured. 

“You are restless, Trenton. Am I 
not sufficient — entertainment?” 

Trenton grinned. His eyes sv/ept 
the clinging gown that scarcely hid 
her white body. In the pale candle- 
light, she was a goal that tugged at 
him with fierce bonds. He had tasted 
her kisses, had heard her whispered 
love-words. And yet — 

Kiryla was waiting. 


He rolled from the low divan, 
went and poured green frothla from 
a golden carafe. He tilted his head 
and let the hot liquor slide down his 
throat. He picked up another goblet, 
half-filled it with the potent fluid. 
Back turned to the woman, he moved 
his hand, flipped grains of white 
powder in the drink. 

He carried the goblet to the cush- 
ions. 

Drayatha threw a white arm 
around his neck. Her green eyes 
blazed into his. She whispered, “Is 
the drink — for me, Trenton?” 

“For you, Drayatha.” 

She put out a hand and took the 
bowl. Smiling at him — a chill 
thought came to Trenton that she 
smiled in mockery — she put the gob- 
let to her lips and drank. 

Lying back, she tossed the beaker 
from her. It rattled and bounced on 
the floor. She smiled, wriggled white 
fingers at him, beckoning. 

“Come to me, Trenton. Kiss me, as 
you did before...” 

In the midst of the caress, he felt 
her stiffen in his arms. Her eyes 
rolled back. A little froth gathered 
at the corners of her mouth. She 
murmured, “I am. , .not well. I thirst. 
Give me. . .water. . .water. . .” Her 
head fell sideways, weakly. Her eye- 
lids closed. 

Trenton pressed ear to her chest, 
heard the muffled beating of her 
heart. She would sleep well, would 
Drayatha, while he and Kiryla fled 
to the Llinana-kir. He stepped from 
the divan, ran across the room, 
pulled back the curtains. 

The corridors were empty. Only 
in the outer rooms would there be 
guards. And Trenton would not pass 
through those. He ran down an in- 
tersecting hall, stepped through a 
door. A cool breeze touched his 
cheek, ruffled the hair on his head. 
Closing the door, he ran impatient 
eyes about the garden. 

Kiryla came forward from behind 
a scarlet dictalos shrub. She was 
draped in a black cloak, her yellow 
hair glimmering above it. Her violet 
eyes searched his face. 

He caught her hand, avoiding her 
eyes. “We’ll have to hurry. I don’t 
know how long that drug will hold 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


85 


Drayatha. Remember, if we meet any- 
one, we’re sweethearts. We stepped 
outside to kiss.” 

He thought of Drayatha in her 
perfumed cushions. Ha! It was hard 
to leave her, but Trenton was play- 
ing for big stakes ! 

No one stopped them. The streets 
were almost deserted under the sil- 
ver light of the twin moons. They 
ran surely but silently on furred 
sandals. Kiryla guided them. She had 
been to Min-dir City before, many 
times. Bringing food and furs, she 
told Trenton. Once Mani had come 
with her, taken her to the threshold 
of the Little Altar and let her see 
the dim recesses of the Temple. 

T hey passed men drunk with 
green frothla, and painted wom- 
en who attended banquets for the 
Min-dir nobles. No one bothered 
them. No one even seemed to notice 
them, so intent v/ere they on their 
own affairs. 

And then, so abruptly that he had 
to put out a hand to Kiryla'a shoul- 
der to steady himself, he almost ran 
into the man he had seen in the 
Blotch. The same thin white, dying 
face v/as shadowed by the cowl of 
his cloak, and the blazing brown eyes 
still burned with frantic zeal. Tren- 
ton tried, for a split moment, to read 
what the man was trying to tell him 
with his eyes. And could not. 

Then the man was gone, and the 
way to the Temple was clear before 
them. Against the sheer, straia:ht 
bluff of a mountainside. The pol- 
ished black walls of the Temple 
stood like a black basalt block. 
Square and hard it was, with an 
arched doorway of hand-car ved 
metal. 

And in front of the door, two 
guards. 

Trenton fumbled in the belt that 
girdled his lean waist, lifting out 
the blue dislntor. He tool: quick aim 
as he ran. Bright globules of 
amethyst fire swept from the nozzle; 
swept like burning hailstones, to hit 
and devour the guards before they 
could lift their own v/eapons. 

He pushed Kiryla ahead of him 
into the pale darkness of the Temple. 


They stood arm to arm, breathing 
softly, ears straining. They heard no 
sound. 

“Now,” he whispered, and turned. 

It was like a slap in the face from 
a woman who has kissed you with 
hunger in the set of her mouth. 
Trenton had not expected this. He 
stood, staring; while Kiryla put her 
hand over her mouth and shrank 
against him. 

A glowing globe of transparent 
blue glass, stretched so thin it wais 
merest film. Hazy with the opales- 
cent light, hiding the dainty fila- 
ments and delicate tentacles 
stretched from moon-arc of tissue- 
thin. metal to glittering ovoid: all 
inside the globe. 

And the globe suspended in space 
between the high arched stone ceil- 
ing and the flat space of black ba- 
salt, like nn altar. 

And in the strange cerulescent 
light — 

Drayatha! 

She stood straight and proud, still 
in the revealing film of her dressing 
gown. Her green eyes mocked, 
taunted. At her right was Theg, a 
thin coalsor lifted toward the two by 
the tall door. At her right were half 
a hundred warriors, Min-dir cavalry- 
men. 

Drayatha laughed. 

“Come forward to my Altar, Kiry- 
la of the Llinana-kir. Come you also. 
Trenton.” 

He thrust Kiryla behind him, with 
the half-formed notion of blasting 
with his dislntor at the redhaired 
woman who laughed at him, of blast- 
ing until he fell, and taking Kiryla 
with him. And then that new and 
dc.adl'^ part of him v.diispered. Fool! 
Play yciir cards. You sold your 
sword, so v/hy not use h? 

Trenton straightened, grinned. He 
came down the long, dim distance 
of th.e Temple floor, walking toward 
the bluish haze. Like a chastened 
slave, Kiryla followed. 

Drayatha seared hi\n with her 
eyes. “Did you think I was fool 
enough to b:^ taken in by that pow- 
der, Trenton? I’d swallowed its anti- 
dote before you filled the goblet. 
Did you think me so stupid?” 


86 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


THE contrary/* he 
grinned. “I thought you’d 
caught on. That you knew what I 
was doing. That you were playing 
the game with me, helping me.” 

Doubt slid into the green eyes. 
She cocked her head sideways. Un> 
der the blue light, the red hair 
glistened with purple depths. 
“You’re telling me I knew you’d 
play the traitor?” 

Trenton shrugged. ‘T thought you 
knew I was taking Kiryla back to the 
Llinana-kir, to win them to the 
Snake banners. How else could I 
go? With trumpets blowing? With 
a royal blessing? If I'd gone like 
that, the Llinana-kir’d have pulled 
me apart between two jelafafs 

Kiryla gasped, behind him. And 
Drayatha was plainly puzzled. She 
said slowly, *Tf you’re telling me 
the truth, you’re a bold rogue. And 
if you’re lying, you act like Tufan 
himself!” 

Trenton hid the savage elation in 
him. He spread his hands wide. 
“What other reason would I have? 
I’m not fool enough to think the 
Llinana-kir could give me reward 
enough for bringing Kiryla back to 
them, to match the reward you 
could give me!” 

It was a bold stroke. Trenton went 
on, “I thought about it a long time. 
If I were to go back with Kiryla 
and help win the Llinana-kir to you, 
I’d have to make my flight look 
good. I’d hoped this would be an 
escape that would wag Min-dir 
tongues for years. I’d hoped — that 
you were clever enough to under- 
stand.” 

Drayatha flushed. Theg brushed 
forward, the ccalsor shaking in his 
big hand. “Let me finish them, 
Drayatha. Two stud-depressings and 
they’d — ” 

The back of her hand caught his 
face, drove him back a step. Draya- 
tha stepped toward Trenton, eyes 
blazing. “If I thought that was the 
truth — ^but no ! You could have told 
me! You would have told me!” 

“And you would have told Theg 
—and Theg might have let his hot 
head run away with everything you 
and I planned!” 


Drayatha lifted her hands and ran 
long white fingers through her 
loosened hair. She brooded at him 
long, eyes half-veiled. Trenton knew 
she was judging him in her head, in 
her heart, in the soft flesh of her 
scarlet lips. She flung back her head, 
gestured suddenly. 

“Mount the altar! Mount it, I 
say!” 

Kiryla brushed past Trenton, not 
touching him. She was sobbing into 
the dark material of the hood. She 
stepped onto the black block beneath 
the glistening blue globe. Trenton 
followed her. He stood with the iri- 
descent beams of the blueness all 
around him; heard from afar and 
faintly, the deep music of unearth- 
ly regions. He sneered at himself, 
but the thought came — 

Was it the music— of Time it- 
self? 

Deep and thunderous arpeggios. 
Tinkling pizzicatos. A swaying, 
humming rhythm akin to the roar 
and sweep of the stars through space, 
partner to a sun’s birth and a plan- 
et’s cold and dying end. Time! 

Drayatha moved forward, staring 
up at him. 

“Trenton,” she whispered. “I can- 
not take a chance ! I can’t let myself 
fail now. Soon the real Altar will 
open to me. I must be ready — strong 
for it! — when it comes!” 

I T WAS almost a question. Tren- 
ton grinned, “Be strong for me. 
Y^n won’t kill me. Not yet.” 

He was tensing his muscles to 
lift Kiryla, to turn and whirl into 
the blackness of the tunnel beyond 
the basalt block. Kiryla had told him 
of it. As he ascended the block he’d 
studied it, found the orifice. Once 
inside that, his blue disintor would 
keep the tunnel clean. 

“I do not intend to kill you,” 
Drayatha said. “I am going to free 
you — give you as my gift — to the 
endless corridors of Tims. I will 
lose you, lock you in Time itself. 
When? Where? Who knows? Not I. 
Only the Altar!” 

Trenton felt the force settle 
around him. His body locked. He 
tried, and could not move. The deep 
thunder of the music grew louder 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


87 


and louder. It beat and hammered in 
his ears, grew faint and shrill. The 
blue light deepened. It glimmered 
and pulsed. Above him the trans- 
parent globe was whirling, whirling, 
whirling. The tissue-thin filaments 
and wires were glittering brighter 
and brighter. 

The mystery of Time was open- 
ing to him, yawning at his feet, 
reaching up to suck him into its 
boundless maw. Like a voracious 
whirlpool, it drew him down and 
down, into grey haziness that was 
like a thin black nylanese veil 
wafted by a thousand winds. 

Warm in his hand was the hand 
of Kiryla. He heard her sobbing, 
felt her shuddering body press to 
his. “Trenton. . .Trenton. . .where is 
it taking us? I’m frightened, Tren- 
ton. . 

And then there was peace. The 
veil was there, but it was still, now; 
amd beyond it, glimpsed faintly, was 
a rolling meadow. They were a part 
of that scene, and yet not a part of 
it. Swiftly across the meadow gal- 
loped Min-dir cavalry. So swiftly 
they went that they were scarcely 
more than a blurred movement. 

The meadow changed its contours. 
Rocks lifted. Trees fell. The ground 
swelled and shifted. Ice came and 
went. 

“We’re going faster,” muttered 
Trenton. “Time is catching us into 
its rhythm.” 

“Where will we end?” 

“Beyond Time, At the end of all 
the planets.” 

Kiryla whimpered and crept 
against him. “You mean we’ll never 
get out of this? That Drayatha...” 

Trenton chuckled wryly. “Draya- 
tha is dead by now. We must be 
thousands of years in the future. 
The Altar is open, by this time. But 
whether Min-dir or Linana-kir won 
...who knows?” 

A city grew on the meadow be- 
fore them, lived its span and fell 
into ruin and decay. Giant vines 
and creepers grew among the split 
rocks and twisted monuments. Ani- 
mals fought and mated and died in 
the shadows of the metropolis. And 
then even the stones crumbled and 
blew away before titanic hurricanes 


that blasted trees from the ground, 
that tumbled debris before it, that 
caught human figures and whirled 
them loosely, like leaves, before 
crushing them against a rock or 
cliff-wall. 

The storms died and went away. 
New civilizations rose and died. 
Ages passed, and still Trenton and 
Kiryla drifted in the flow of time. 

O NCE, WHEN Trenton found a 
queer fascination in studying 
a new type weapon that was being 
used in a battle, he fought against 
the flow of time, fought hard, and 
checked it; he swayed there, motion- 
less, as time itself went past him. 

It gave him an idea. He told Kiry- 
la, “If we can stand and let Time go 
past us, maybe we could go back into 
the past, by a little extra effort.” 

But they found that almost impos- 
sible. They went back a little, yes: 
but the effort drew on their strength 
and left them weak and gasping. “If 
we only had some motive force, we 
might make it,” Trenton told Kiryla. 
But they could not escape from the 
time flow to find materials. 

It was Kiryla who saw Drayatha. 
She was seated on a scarlet 
throne, long red tresses caught up 
about her shapely head and wound 
with chains of diamonds and pearls. 
A cloth of gold skirt was slit up the 
side, through which protruded her 
white thigh. Jewel-studded breast- 
plates glittered in the lights of the 
long hall. 

Before her, in chains, stood a doz- 
en men. They wore the white uni- 
form of— Trenton frowned. He knew 
that uniform. He had seen it be- 
fore, a long time before. . .when he 
was... of course! It was the Fleet 
uniform! Earth Fleet! And those 
were space admirals and lesser offi- 
cers, before her! 

He fought against the nylanese 
veil, hammering its nebulosity with 
maddened fists. Realization came in 
a flood of bitterness at his stupidity. 
Drayatha had conquered the Fleet, 
had taken Earth and Venus, and the 
other planets of the System! He, 
Trenton, was more than a failure. 

Dimly ho understood what was 
occurring in the great Chamber. The 


88 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


admirals were captives, taken in a 
mighty battle by Drayatha. She 
wanted information that the Fleet 
officers were refusing. Drayatha 
stood up, and Theg came forward. 
Trenton shuddered, seeing the metal 
tipped knout that the giant car- 
ried. The admirals would be tor- 
tured. One or two of them would 
weaken. Drayatha would learn top- 
drawer secrets. The disposition of 
space cruisers and starships. Crew 
complements. Weaponry. 

Kiryla whispered, "^e must have 
come far into the future, Trenton, 
to have a base of operations here.*’ 

Trenton vdiirled, hands leaping for 
her shoulders. “Of course! It didn't 
dawn on me, but that’s right. She 
must have passed us in the time 
flow, come on to this age, built a 
citadel here! She’s giving us our 
chance, Kiryla — our chance to — go 
back!” 

Kiryla stared at him blankly. 

“Don’t you see?” Trenton said im- 
patiently. “If Drayatha came here, 
she must have some means of loco- 
motion in Time. JVe need a means 
like that, Kiryla. It’s as simple as 
taking her means of locomotion 
away from her!” 

They hunted in the nylanese 
mists, with fear and frenzy in their 
eyes and hearts. This was the one 
chance they must grasp. There 
would be no others. Drayatha had 
come this far into the future to 
build a citadel of power for herself, 
a base of operations far removed 
from chance of reprisal. But once 
built, she would not go further into 
the future. Chance was, she had al- 
ready searched into the misty fu- 
ture, bad found it barren, and re- 
jected it. 

T hey searched on, desper- 
ate and afraid. From the great 
black citadel to the forest beyond 
Then on to a smoothly flowing river 
they hunted, wispy beings in the 
grey stream of time. And then, 
when they found themselves yield- 
ing to the pressure of the mighty 
imponderable flow of the years — 
They saw it! 

A queer ship, it was; fitted with 
fluted vanes jointed to the bright 


red hull, with convex discs rising 
above it in tiered brilliance to a 
glowing green globe atop a single 
mast. Two valves gave entry, valves 
that were locked and bolted. The 
ship hung motionless in the time 
flow, held by some invisible force. 

Trenton pulled Kiryla after him, 
buffeting the time-current. He fum- 
bled at his waist, drew out the stil- 
sor. A verdant lance of flame lashed 
from the barrel; licked once against 
the lock, ate hungrily through the 
metal. 

A touch of the oalm opened the 
door. 

A narrow corridor framed with 
metal ridges inset in the alutistil 
wall framed a guard whose eyes 
bulged at sight of them, whose hand 
was a second too slow in bringing 
the refantor out of his leather hol- 
ster. 

Trenton came down the corridor 
iai two long bounds, big fist lifting 
to strike. The guard made a sodden 
sound as he went into the wall and 
bounced. Trenton tore his refantor 
from his fingers and handed it to 
Kiryla. 

Trenton walked on. In the control 
room an engineer was on his back, 
working over a shattered rheostat. 
He was removing the electrode 
plates when he saw them. He lifted 
his head, blue eyes startling in his 
blackened face. 

“Wha — what do you want? 
Who’re you?” 

Trenton said, “The girl is Kiryla 
of the Llinana-kir. I am Trenton. 
How many men are here in this 
ship ?” 

The young engineer shrugged, slid 
out from under the barrel of the 
cylinder. He said, “Just me and a 
guard. Nobody ever came out of the 
stream before. You did come from 
time, didn’t you? Thought so. Dry- 
yatha keeps her other entrances too 
well policed.” 

“Can you operate this thing?” 

The engineer looked at Trenton, 
then dropped his eyes. He shrugged, 
“I can operate it, but I can’t go back 
beyond the time at which the time- 
ler, this ship, entered the flow. OAly 
Drayatha knows that secret, that she 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


89 


learned from Nannar-kir. She locks 
and seals the controls. This timeler 
acts as a ferry between two points. 
I can return you to our starting 
point, that is all.” 

Trenton asked, “How long have 
we — been gone?” 

“Eleven years,” said the man, 
bending to thrust over a lever, to 
spin a grey dial. 

“Is Mani still alive?” whispered 
Kiryla, her free-flung golden hair 
shimmering like a golden waterfall. 

“Still alive and defiant. The Lli- 
nana-kir think you two are Draya- 
tha’s prisoners. Mani counselled 
them to wait, hoping you would es- 
cape and return to lead them against 
her. That was why no resistance was 
offered when the Altar finally 
opened. She sent messengers to the 
hill-country, saying you would die 
by torture if the Llinana-kir fought 
her. Mani gave her free access to the 
Altar. Now she has built a city of 
the Min-dir around the Altar, built 
walls to keep out the Llinana-kir, 
made it her stronghold.” 

Kiryla whispered, “Trenton, we’ve 
failed! She has the Altar and her 
weapem!” 

Trenton growled to the engineer, 
**Take us back! Put us down in the 
hills — near Mani’s chalet! Hurry!” 

The engineer looked at the round 
muzzle of the disintor, shrugged, and 
put out a hand. 

Faintly from within the hull of 
the timeler a machine whirred. Soft 
susurrations vibrated all about them 
as the engineer manipulated the con- 
trols. There was a whispering as if a 
breeze shook the leaves of giant 
trees. 

Then — silence. 

A LANTERN swung to and fro 
from the beamed ceiling. Its 
glow made faint patterns of shadow 
on the stooped form of old Mani as 
he piled a crude wooden platter 
with food. A curtain behind him 
moved and lifted. 

The old man whirled. His hands 
shook. A wooden spoon slipped 
from his nerveless fingers to the 
floor. 

“Wha. .wha. . ?” 

“Mani! It's Kiryla i Yes, yes, Ma- 


ni ! I’ve come back — from the time 
flow. We weren’t prisoners. We 
were in the time stream!” 

Trenton came forward to stand be- 
side her. He told the old man what 
had 'happened, how they had tried 
to escape, been caught and thrown 
into time itself; of how they had 
fled from the distant future to the 
present. 

He concluded, “We left the time- 
ler in the City of the Altar, came 
here under cover of night.” 

The old man listened, touching 
his lips with a dry tongue. He shook 
with excitement. He cried, striking 
gnarled hands together, “Now we 
can do what he told me — I mean, 
the time has come to strike at Dra- 
yatha! I was worried, no matter what 
he told ...” 

“He?” asked Trenton. 

Mani shook his head. “I cannot 
tell you anything about him, except 
that he comes and goes in some odd 
manner, that he always wears a 
black cloak and hood — but he. did 
tell me that he needed you, Tren- 
ton, and you, Kiryla, to stop Draya- 
tha!” 

Trenton protested, “Stop Draya- 
tha! But she’s opened the Altar, 
used it to power her spacers, to 
build the timeler, to attack Earth! 
She has her weapon, that terrible 
motive force that you said was Time 
itself.” 

Mani nodded eagerly, “Yes, yes. 
All that. But there is a way. You 
see, Time is a weapem beside which 
an atom explosion is a breath of 
breeze on a summer day. She has 
focused that force, has built time- 
rupteis with it as their power. The 
trouble is, the timerupters are too 
powerful. She can’t use them any- 
where but in space itself, against a 
rival ship or fleet. If she used them 
on a planet, the resulting blast 
would blow the planet and everyone 
on it to spacedust! 

“Drayatha learned that the first 
time she sent a force to attack the 
Earth empire’s outer forts on Pluto. 
She lost her entire fleet when they 
fired their timerupters at the Earth 
fort. The planet exploded, took her 
entire fleet with it. Unfortunately — 
Drayatha was not with them.” 


90 


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“Go on,” prompted Trenton. 

“She has beaten Earth Fleet in 
space combat. She controls the 
space lanes of the universe. But she 
cannot land men on Earth or any of 
the planets. Earth science — outside 
of the Time force — is far superior to 
ours. Our science is lopsided. 
Against a better-balanced adversary, 
Drayatha is helpless.” 

Trenton muttered, “Those admir- 
rals. She tortured them to try and 
learn the secret of Earth weapons. 
Small arms. Atomic blasters and dis- 
intors.” 

Mani shrugged, "If they talk, Dra- 
yatha will be able to arm and equip 
her armies. She will attack Earth 
empire on its fringe — conquer slow- 
ly — for the Earth cannot send spac- 
ers to help its colonies. Drayatha 
and her timerupters would annihi- 
late them.” 

To Trenton came a picture of the 
Earth, lying like a trapped animal 
on a limb : unable to escape, yet safe 
from immediate attack. Sooner or 
later, she must leave the limb. And 
then — oblivion. 

Trenton growled, “If there were 
only some way to strike at her ! The 
Altar is her vulnerable spot. Perhaps 
an attack on that — ” 

Mani shook his head slowly. “You 
would need an army. And Drayatha 
has armed her Min-dir too we!]. The 
Llinana-kir are herders and farmers, 
not trained soldiers. But there might 
be a way. With your help — ” 

"With their help — what?” 

Drayatha, a naked white arm hold- 
ing the curtain aside, stood in the 
archway of the little chalet, smiling 
at them. Behind her, levelled blast- 
ers in their hands, were a score of 
black-clad Time Troopers. 

CHAPTER IV 

S HE CAME forward, moving 
like a proud feline. Her green 
eyes gazed curiously, eagerly at 
Trenton and Kiryla. Her red mouth 
quivered amusedly. One white hand 
she waved at Mani and a Time 
Trooper stepped around her, 
dragged Mani from his chair and out 
of the room. 

“Trenton, did you think you could 


escape me? You should have killed 
the engineer. He came back in the 
timeler, told me where you were. I 
came as swiftly as you.” 

She broke off, smiling wryly. She 
moved a little away from him, put a 
hand to a wooden mug and slid it 
aimlessly in circles on the bare ta- 
bletop. The lantern-light made her 
white skin transparent. The blue 
veins under her skin stood forth with 
delicate tracery. Her green eyes 
glowed hungrily. She brushed a lock 
of scarlet hair from her forehead. 

“Tell me, Trenton. What was it 
like?” 

He snarled, “You devil’s whelp! 
What happened to the Fleet ad- 
mirals?” 

Her eyes mocked him. “They died, 
Trenton. Under the knout. They had 
a good time with them. But they 
di^ obstinately. Three of them bit 
off their tongues. By that time the 
rest were dead. I will have to make 
another raid.” 

He quivered with rage. He put out 
his hands, but dropped them. Draya- 
tha might die, but her work would 
go on. And it was her work, the 
Altar and the timerupters and the 
timeler s, that were dangerous. With- 
out them, Drayatha was just a wom- 
an. 

Trenton chuhkled, "You could 
ask me, Drayatha. Nicely. I might 
talk — for the proper persuasion.” 

He knew Kiryla was staring at 
him oddly, her golden brows gath- 
ered. He avoided her eyes. 

Drayatha laughed softly. “You 
played that game once before, Tren- 
ton. Once burned, twice shy.” 

He laughed, “You were a fool. As 
you are now. Always you take the 
hard road. What’s the matter with 
the easy one? I told you then I was 
planning to escape in order to help 
win the Llinana-kir to you. You still 
don’t believe me.” 

Drayatha dropped the mug. It fell 
to the floor with a hollow sound, 
rolling. She came as close to Tren- 
ton as she dared. Her little hands 
made shaking white fists. Her voice 
whispered, “If only I dared believe 
you! If only I did! You and I — you 
as you can be... hard, ruthless. . .we 
would rule...” 


TEMPTRESS OP THE TIME FLOW 


91 


Trenton whispered, “A s k for 
proof, Drayatha. How can I convince 
you?” 

Her green eyes flared as though 
lambent fires danced behind verdant 
glass. Her mouth made a moue of re- 
flection. 

"*The most powerful weapon Earth 
has ! A weapon that I can give every 
man that wears my Snake ! Give me 
diagrams, Trenton. Blueprints to 
hand my factories!” 

“You could go back to Earth in a 
timeler and learn information like 
that yourself,” he said. 

“I tried,” she admitted ruefully. 
“I don't know enough of the Earth 
to let me search quickly. Once I 
landed on a desert. Once, deep in the 
ocean. That was a close call, Tren- 
ton. The next time the timeler 
dropped on a mountain peak. I al- 
most froze to death. After that — I 
abandoned those attempts.” 

Trenton grinned, “And you didn’t 
trust anybody well enough to let 
him go for you ! Alv/ays it has to be 
you. You must hold all the reins of 
power. The timeler controls. Secrets 
of the Altar, of Time itself. All in 
your hands.” 

“It is safest, that way.” 

She turned, clapped her hands. 
Two black-clad Time Troopers en- 
tered. She gestured at Kiryla. “Take 
her outside. Put her in a sealed com- 
partment of the timeler.*’ 

Trenton saw Kiryla turn and stare 
at him, saw the doubt and the fear 
in her eyes. Then she turned and 
went out before the Troopers, her 
golden head low-hung, shoulders 
bowed in despair. 

Drayatha watched the golden girl 
leave. Then she whirled on Trenton, 
lifting her hand savagely, bringing 
the flat palm of it stinging against 
his cheek. 

Her laughter mocked him. She 
cried harshly, “Where are you, 
Trenton? Where is that man that’s 
in you? Find him for me, Trenton! 
I want him! With him beside me... 
where is he? Where is he?” 

Trenton caught her wrist, but she 
twisted free. Her green eyes flared. 
Her red hair lashed about her 
white shoulders like living fire. She 


panted, fighting him, her fingernails 
slashing his cheeks, cutting flesh. 

He knew what she was doing. 
With her voice and with her hands 
she was hunting that other self the 
psychiatrists had made so long ago, 
back on earth. That different per- 
sonality, that ghostlike someone who 
haunted him, who lived inside him. 
Vaguely he remembered back to the 
early twentieth century, remembered 
the fictitious Jekyll-Hyde, the real 
and living Beauchamp. Other cases 
— not exactly schizophrenia — u t 
instances such as the Phantom of 
Bucharest who was the Crown At- 
torney, the dual personalities of ac- 
credited medical history, the wonder 
of the human brain where saint and 
criminal was in one body — 

He threw her from him. He need- 
ed all his senses to save Kiryla. If 
Drayatha brought his other-self back 
with his cold arrogance and hunger 
for power, his sell-blade philosophy — 
“I’ll make the blueprints,” he 
snarled, “I'll make them. Only — > 
leave me alone!” 

Drayatha laughed at him. She 
drew herself up; whispered, “You’re 
afraid, Trenton. Afraid of me... of 
what I can do to you. You fool! Go 
to your blueprints. But remember... 
you will change for me... some day 
soon! Then the Earth is mine... 
and yours! Remember, remember!” 

He stumbled out after her troop- 
ers, head aching, knowing that she 
spoke the truth. 

T renton paced restlessly in 
the glass-floored room that was 
his cell. The drapes hung richly 
golden on three walls. On the fourth 
was a smooth stretch of black marble 
with a circular red door. He had 
finished the blueprints, tossed them 
in a corner of the room near his 
sleeping divan. 

Soon now, Drayatha would send 
her Time Troopers for him. They 
would take the blueprints and — his 
life. 

Trenton chuckled. Let Drayatha 
have the prints. Let her build 
weapons with them.! Let her troop- 
ers try and use them ! 

“They’ll blast themselves to dry 
powder!” he whispered. “Every one 


92 


MAEtVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


of those prints calls for a gun that 
will — backfire !” 

A step sounded on the glassine 
flagging. Trenton whirled. 

The man in the black cloak! The 
man whose face he had seen in the 
Blotch, and again in the streets of 
Min-dir-City when he and Kiryla 
had fled toward the temple! His 
face was white and lined, old. The 
deepset brown eyes were filled with 
sadness, with inscrutable knowledge. 

Trenton said, ‘T suppose you’re 
one of Drayatha’s spies. Well, you 
can go to her, tell her the prints 
are ready.” 

The man in the black cowl never 
glanced aside. He said, “I have not 
much time. Time! What a fragile 
thing it is, really. Strong, ponder- 
ous — and fragile. It is always here, 
yet when you seek to keep it back 
from passing — already it is gone. 
But of that, enough.” 

“Who are you?” asked Trenton 
wonderingly. 

“A dead man. Aie, yes. Dead for 
thousands of years. And yet — not 
dead. Alive in this little segment of 
space-time. Again, enough! 

“I have come from my deathbed 
to speak with you, man of a differ- 
ent age! You must stop Drayatha! 
At once, do you understand? If she 
keeps on her mad, headlong course, 
like a maddened steer plunging into 
a throng — she will destroy the 
world, all the universes ! Time ! It’s 
strong, I tell you. It’s a flow energy 
that is kept within rigid bounds by 
magnetic forces, much as a wire 
chains electricity.” 

“Go on,” said Trenton hoarsely. 

“She has tapped that energy-flow 
from the Altar. . .not realizing that 
as she drains away Time, she is al- 
tering the magnetic balances that 
keep it in check!” 

Trenton laughed harshly. “Suppose 
I agree with you, old one? I’m a 
prisoner here — or didn’t you know? 
What do you suggest I do?” 

“Only one thing, Trenton. Destroy 
the Altar!’* 

The brown eye« in the shadow of 
the red hair widened suddenly. Tren- 
ton read alarm in them. And then — 

The man faded into mist. Quiv- 
ered slightly, and — 

Was gone! 


A beam of intolerable heat dart- 
ed by Trenton’s shoulder, 
stung him, whirled him frantically 
aside as he dove to escape its blast. 
The sizzling beam of power ate up 
the spot where the red-haired man 
had stood ; ate it up and found- 
nothing. 

From the floor, Trenton stared at 
Drayatha. Her right hand was 
clenched around a beam-gun. Her 
breasts rose and fell angrily. In the 
whiteness of her cheeks, Trenton 
read — fear. 

“Who was that? Trenton, tell me! 
That man with the red hair! Was it 
— ^but no ! In the name of all the 
sanities, it couldn’t have been! Not 
— he! Trenton, who was he?” 

“The little man that wasn’t there,” 
grinned Trenton, getting to his feet. 

Drayatha was across the room in a 
long, feral stride. Her right hand 
came flashing up, stung hard and 
tingling against his cheek. Automa- 
tically, Trenton drew back. A Fleet 
captain was trained in gentlemanly 
ways. A Fleet captain did not strike 
back at a woman who slapped 
him .... 

But he had been caught off-guard. 
This time the stinging slap released 
the other that was inside Trenton: 
the come-day-go-day, God-made-Sun- 
day sell-sword that they had made 
out of him in the psychiatric wards 
back in the Interrogation Building, 
ages ago. .. Inside him he could feel 
it building up, sweeping forward, 
cyclonic, brushing aside the fragile 
barriers that held it out, that kept 
it in check. . . 

He snarled in his throat as his 
left hand moved up and sideways. 
He struck Drayatha’s wrist with the 
edge of his hand, hard. She cried 
out. Her fingers released the beam- 
gun. It arched through the air. 

Trenton was after it like a Pro- 
cyonic Tigrat. He caught it inches 
from the floor, whirled and blasted 
a sheet of flame in front of the red- 
haired Draytha. 

“Don’t move,” he told her coldly. 
“If you want to go on living, don’t 
move !” 

She was a statue, standing there, 
arms by her side. Only her green 
eyes w'ere alive and filled with 
throbbing triumph. 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


93 


He came back toward her, insult- 
ing in the arrogance of his catlike 
stride. He towered over her, smiling 
wryly. He put out a hand and closed 
it on her jaw. Holding her like that 
he bent his head and kissed her 
hard. When he drew back, she clung 
to him. 

“Trenton, you've come back! I 
knew you would! Now, you and I. . . 
together we could...” 

He shoved her away, laughed at 
the raw anger in her face. He said, 
“The man in the black cowl asked 
me to destroy the Altar.” 

“Trenton — you wouldn’t !” 

He said, “I don’t know. One time 
I think that’s the most important 
thing there is, to smash the Altar 
and you with it. At another time, 
when somebody else is inside me, 
riding my body and brain — the way 
I am now — I think I’d like nothing 
better than to go with you into 
space, to find worlds and conquer 
them! To drag the loot of unguess- 
able centuries to Min-dir City and 
pile it high. To walk ankle-deep in 
diamonds and whorl-stones. To hunt 
the woman of Time, find the love- 
liest ones of all and — take them!” 

Drayatha lifted her arms, toyed 
with the piles of rich red hair that 
crowned her shapely head. With 
slumbrous green eyes she mocked 
him. She whispered, “I am not 
jealous, Trenton. You can have other 
women for your playthings — as long 
as you are mine!” 

T renton went and kicked 

the divan aside with a foot to 
reveal the blueprints piled beneath 
it. Drayatha watched him. 

“Your blueprints,” he told her. “I 
bought my freedom with them. Or 
did I?” 

She studied him. “I was going to 
kill you, Trenton. That is truth. Now 
— I don’t know. If you were as you 
are now, always! By Yoll! What a 
man you are — like this!” 

She reached out, ran teasing fin- 
gertips across his mouth. She 
whispered, “Why aren’t you this 
you all the time, Trenton? What 
softens you?” 

Trenton laughed harshly; thought 
of golden Kiryla, and scowled. Could 
it be her goodness that called to the 


real Trenton, that penetrated under 
the hard, sneering shell of the man 
he was now? Had she something in 
her psyche that brought out the 
otherness in him? 

Drayatha brooded at him. She slid 
her white palms up his chest, 
touched his neck, his cheeks. 
Pressed to him, she whispered, “Tell 
me, Trenton! You know. I can read 
the answer in your eyes! Is it — 
Kiryla?” 

Her laughter was soft, provocative. 
“That’s it, isn’t it? She draws the 
hardness out of you, as I put it in. 
With me you are all the conquerors 
of all Time. You are Alexander and 
Napoleon of Earth, Bral Kan of 
Procyon, Gartillin Vo of Deneb. 
You are! I feel it, inside the big 
chest of you. I like this side of 
you, Trenton. I hate the milksop 
that she makes of you I” 

Her red mouth burned on his until 
he responded to her lure. His arms 
tightened, crushed her full, supple 
body against his. Breathless, she 
fought clear of him; laughed, “Don’t 
kill me. . .stop! Tonight. . .Trenton, 
tonight !” 

He thought of her perfumed 
cushions and released her, grinning. 
She hummed a song, luring him 
with green eyes and rounded body. 
She twisted aside as he reached for 
her. Sank against him suddenly, 
breathing, “One thing, promise me. 
Only one thing — and I take you as 
my lord!” 

“You white witch! What do you 
want?” 

“I want death. Kiryla’s death! Say 
that she must die, Trenton. Say it!” 

“NO!” 

The word burst from him explo- 
sively. He brooded into the promis- 
ing green eyes. He growled, “No 
man wars against a woman.” 

“This isn’t war. It’s politics!” 

“Not death, no... not that!” 

Drayatha clapped her hands. “The 
Altar! We will give her back to 
Time, Trenton. She will not die. . . 
perhaps she will live forever.” 

Trenton drew away from her. His 
heart hammered inside his chest. 
That was the answer! That was the 
way to rid this self of the golden 
girl who prevented his taking this 


94 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


redhead for his own, who barfed the 
path to other worlds, who held him 
back by a tenuous grip from looting 
planets and universes! 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “That might 
be the way. Time’s flow will not 
hurt her. She and I were there once 
before. It will carry her along... not 
hurting her...” 

“Carry her, Trenton, out of our 
lives! And now, come kiss me! Kiss 
me hard, hard, hard. . .” 

CHAPTER V 

I T WAS A good throne, this gi- 
gantic ebony seat encrusted with 
gold snakes. Trenton slapped his 
palm on the broad arm and laughed. 
His laughter rang loud in the room, 
rang over the white head of Mani, 
over the bowed, golden-tressed head 
of Kiryla of the Llinana-kir. 

Against the walls the black- 
garbed Time Troopers stood, their 
dark uniforms lashed with golden 
snake designs. They were his troops 
now! And those drapes that had 
hung in a sunken palace on Tanit 
were bis, and the massy vases like 
the ceramics of the ancient Thsang- 
kong, the captured swords chain- 
hung on the wall, the floor beneath 
and the groined roof far above him 
— his! 

Trenton stared at Kiryla, felt the 
softness stirring inside him. He 
sighed. Condemn to the time flow 
this girl who loves you? Be wise, 
Trenton! Drayatha is using you... 

A cool white hand touched his 
wrist, sent a tingle through him. And 
recaptured that other self that was 
a hunter of loot and women ! Tren- 
ton looked again at Kiryla and 
laughed. 

Drayatha whispered, “Condemn 
them. Mani and Kiryla!” 

Trenton stood. He looked down 
at the girl, and the man. He said 
slowly, “Out of the gentleness of 
our hearts, your ruler and mistress 
spare you death. Instead, we give 
you immortality. You will be put 
into the time flow above the Altar.” 

Mani said in his deep voice, “Tren- 
ton! Listen to me. Trenton, I have 
spoken with — ” 

A trooper brought the hilt of his 
sword against the old man’s mouth. 


smashing skin and teeth. The troop- 
er picked him up and hit him again. 
Then another trooper came up and 
dragged Mani out of the chamber. 

“Kiryla...” Trenton whispered. 

She did not raise her head. She 
turned on bare feet and padded out 
behind the unconscious form of 
Mani. Trenton watched her go, his 
heart slamming under his ribs. 

Drayatha slid a cool hand over his 
shoulder. She said, “We must follow 
them, lover. We too, go to the Altar. 
Come!” 

A white jelafaf and a black sidled 
restlessly under the restraining 
hands of a big trooper. Trenton 
swung up into the ornate saddle of 
the black. The trooper saluted, 
turned aside to his own mount. Dra- 
yatha reined her white saddler close 
to him. 

“Go first, my lord. This is now — 
your city !” 

Trenton felt the terrible pulse of 
pride beat up in him. His nostrils 
quivered. His head lifted. Far ahead 
Mani and Kiryla were being led to 
the Altar. And once they were gone 
forever — his real life would begin, 
beside the red-headed witch who 
stared at him with provocative green 
eyes ! 

They pounded through the wide 
avenues of the town. Sparks rang 
from the hooves. Thigh by calf with 
Drayatha, Trenton rode the streets 
of his city, knowing the power that 
was his, the loot that v/ould be his, 
the exciting woman beside him who 
would share every universe in space- 
time with him. He thought of the 
perfumed cushions and her white 
body and — last night. 

Cnee, as Trenton reined his 
jelafaf round a corner, he saw a man 
in a dark cowl staring at him with 
brown eyes. The man stared, and 
there was wordless appeal in those 
dark brown eyes, and fright etched 
in the planes of his thin face. Ap- 
peal — against v/hat? Fright — of 
what? Dimly in that other-self of 
him, Trenton knew the answer. The 
man had told him. . .something. . .be- 
fore Drayatha slapped him. Some- 
thing of danger. Danger, not just to 
a person or a thing, but something 
frightful that affected every living 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


95 


and non-living thing in all the imi- 
verses. Destruction? Something 
about Time? If Time lost enough of 
its energy, the delicate balances 
would — 

Trenton reined in, turned his 
stallion’s head aside. 

Drayatha cried, “Trenton! The 
Altar. They are waiting, Trenton!” 
And her white hand was a flame on 
his arm and the lure of her voice 
sent ripples of delight down his 
spine. 

He kicked his heels into the ani- 
mals ribs, and went on. 

T renton remembered the Al- 
tar as long and low and flat, 
its faery traceries in stone friezes 
paneling its borders. Now it was 
dwarfed by giant ston-e ziggurats at 
each of its four corners; ziggurats 
solid with men and beam-gun em- 
placements. Atop each tier of steps 
was a twisty-barreled thing glitter- 
ing in sunlight, aimed at the blue 
sky. Trenton knew it for a time- 
weapon, without thinking. 

The doors of the Altar were open 
and the tiny forms of Mani and 
Kiryla went pacing into the black 
maw beyond them, dragging silvern 
chains. 

Trenton swung from the saddle ; 
found Drayatha already standing, 
her green eyes alive and flaring v/ith 
trium^ph. Her long fingernails dug 
into the naked flesh of his forearm. 
She quivered with excitement, with 
fulfillment. She breathed, “Soon, 
Trenton. Soon you will be all mine. 
No longer milksop, made of water. 
But steel — unbreakable! A man a 
woman can worship!” 

Trenton grinned, strode past her 
toward the Altar. His blood was 
pounding. The hunter and the looter 
in him flamed high, like red tongues 
licking up the remnants of a paper 
meal. The Earth-part of him was 
receding fast, fading and dying un- 
der those scarlet fires. 

His snake-embroidered cloak 
swung from his shoulders. His 
beam-gun holster slapped on his 
thigh. His boots made soft splat- 
splats on the hard tiles of the Al- 
tar-steps. 


Drayatha was at his elbow, fol- 
lowing; her perfume frageant. Theg 
lumbered in her shadow, brow black 
as moon’s spaceside. The doors 
swuug shut benind them. 

Inside the Altar was a low, roomy 
chamber that was bare of everything 
but the blazing, incandescent cube 
that hung a foot above the oval hol- 
low in the center of the room. It 
was glass and yet not glass, tangi- 
ble visibility and supernal brilliance, 
yet intangible nothingness that 
might have been pure energy. It 
gave off streamers of white lumines- 
cence, streamers that blinded. 

Drayatha told him, “It is Time. 
Trenton. Time harnessed into space! 
Held there by magnetic flows! It 
broadcasts energy, throws it off as 
a spacevox radio sending set hurls 
high frequencies. Our weapons and 
motors are geared to its pulse. It 
gives U3 all our strength. Your 
strength, Trenton. Look on it. That 
too is — yours!” 

His! 

The looter in him laughed in wild 
delight. The greatest thing in all the 
universe, his to share with this red 
witch at his side! To Time with 
those who opposed him. To Time 
with them ! Let them be swept along 
the flow as he had been. Let them — 

His face shone with the pride in 
him. He moved forward, where Mani 
and Kiryla were chained. 

And stopped! 

The door was opening again. A 
single figure stood there for a mo- 
ment, advanced step by step into the 
room. His sandaled feet ran;? hol- 
lowly. Trenton saw his brown eyes 
blazing, saw the thin white cheeks. 

Drayatha screamed, as the brown 
eyes regarded her. 

Mani was sobbing, “You have 
come ! Conae as you promised ! I 
have waited patiently. . .thought you 
had forgotten !’* 

“I did not forget. Alone, I could 
do nothing. I hav;e not the strength 
to undo this work. I am dying. . . 
where I came from, I am already 
dead! I must use stronger bodies to 
undo my work... a body like Tren- 
ton’s!” 

Drayatha put out a hand, caught 
at Trenton’s shoulder. Her fingers 


96 


MARVEL SCIEHCE STORIES 


locked in the stuff of his cloak. She 
whimpered, *‘KilI him, Trenton. Kill 
him!” 

His hand fell to his beam-gun, 
drew it slowly from the ornate hol- 
ster. 

The man said, “Kiryla! Help me. 
You and Drayatha are the keys to 
this man’s psyche. You are cata- 
lysts, human catalysts! He veers 
like a leaf between your two poles. 
Good and — evil! 

“Kiryla!” 

I T WAS A cry of despair that 
welled up from the man’s throat 
as the beam-gun steadied on him. It 
had in its keening wail all the hopes 
of a tortured heart. It touched the 
golden girl’s heartstrings, made them 
vibrate. She lifted her head, looked 
at Trenton. 

“No!” 

Just a whisper that faded into the 
air. But it held his finger. Draya- 
tha shook him. “Kill him! Kill! Kill! 
He would prevent your taking all 
this as yours, Trenton. He would 
keep me from you. Trenton!” 

His fingers tightened on the trig- 
ger again. But now Kiryla was mov- 
ing forward, her chains making a 
clanking sound on the hard floor. 
She came in front of Trenton, 
locked her blue eyes with his even 
as her fingers locked his fingers. 

Drayatha whirled. “T h e g — kill 
him. You kill him, Theg!” 

The bearded giant gave a roar, 
sprang forward, huge hands spread. 
And Kiryla touched Trenton’s fore- 
head and eyes with her cool white 
fingers and her voice was liquid 
honey as she breathed, "Save him, 
Trenton. Do not let Theg kill him.” 

Trenton sprang. He met the giant 
in midair with a titantic thud. Then 
they were rolling, twisting, turning 
on the floor. Fists hammered and 
battered. A knee drove into a rib, 
splintered it. A nose mashed on a 
blackbearded face, to run red blood 
across lips and chin. 

The pain of his broken rib was 
agony, but Trenton broke free and 
clubbed his fists into the face of 
the giant. His knuckles came away 
with blood on them. Theg slammed 
him with an elbow, knocking him 
offstride ; was leaping, kicking at his 
groin with lashing foot. 


Trenton twisted, went down. His 
hand shot out, closed on Theg’s 
throat. The giant doubled up, tore 
loose. He rolled over, came up with 
beam-gun. He was triggering it as 
Trenton dove under the greenish 
blast, grappling for the gun-hand. 

Kiryla was screaming. Mani gave 
a cry of despair. And rising loud 
and vibrant in the locked chamber 
of the Time Altar, Drayatha’s tri- 
umphant laughter ! 

“No need to fight, Trenton. Theg! 
No need to fight. Your task is 
done I” 

But they did not hear him. The 
blood lust was on them. Sobbing, 
panting, cursing, Theg sought to 
free the arm that Trenton was turn- 
ing, turning slowly and inexorably, 
back in on Theg. 

The arm gave with a snap. 

And with a convulsive move, 
Theg’s finger touched the trigger, 
depressed it. A beam of greenish 
power slammed out of the beam-gun, 
hit Theg in face and chest and 
throat; ate up flesh and bone and 
sinew. 

Headless, the blood-spurting trunk 
of the once-bearded giant toppled 
forward. Trenton, choking, fell 
aside, stood on wide-parted feet, 
driving breath into his lungs with 
dry sobs. 

Mani and Kiryla knelt by the man 
with the brown eyes. Trenton saw 
his arm and shoulder were gone. He 
remembered that wild blast he him- 
self and swung under; remembered 
Kiryla screaming and Drayatha 
laughing. 

Mani was saying, “We will de- 
stroy the Altar. Kiryla will control 
Trenton. Rest easy.., go back... go 
back. . .” 

The man on the floor was fading, 
shimmering there as if composed of 
dust motes in a sunbeam. . .and was 
gone. 

Kiryla threw back her mane of 
yellow hair, looked up at Trenton. 

“Who was he?” Trenton asked 
hoarsely. 

Mani said, “You did not know? 
That was Nannar-kir! Aie, the man 
who built the Altar! He built it, but 
he wanted it destroyed! For after it 
was built and sealed, he chanced by 
accident in his last days to find that 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW 


97 


one of his equations was wron?. 
That if Time were used too long as 
a power source, those delicate bal- 
ances betv/een time and space and 
the magnetic flows would be de- 
stroyed. And once they were gone, 
all matter would go with them in a 
final holocaust ! 

“He came to destroy the Altar. 
Came — and found his strength not 
enough! Remember, ho was dying! 
He was weakened with old age and 
sickness. He tried, and failed. He 
had to find someone to do his task. 
He chose — 3’ou, Trenton. You were 
neither Min-dir nor Llinana-kir. You 
had no prejudices, no hate of one 
and love for the other. You were the 
alien element that would have no 
objection to smashing the Altar.” 

RENTON DREW air into his 
lungs. Strength was creeping 
back into his muscles, into his big 
frame. 

Mani went on, “He came to me, 
enlisted my aid. I learned from him 
that vou were on the other side of 
the Blotch. I sent Kiryla for you. 
I wanted you to stay v/ith us until 
the Altar opened. Then you could 
have entered, have clone what was 
needed... and all danger to your 
world and ours would be gone for- 
ever !” 

Trenton licked his lips. Destroy 
the Altar? That godlike thing with 
which he could rule the universes? 
Unite Earth and Min-dir in the 
greatest empire Time had ever seen? 
He said hoarsely, “I can’t do it!” 

Drayatha laughed Eoftl3^ She stood 
before the brilliance of the glowing 
white flame. It outlined the beauty 
o£ her body, threw a vi'hiLe aura 
around the crimson hair that 
frained her red-lipped face. 

Mani rose wearily to his feet. He 
looked at Drayatha, and his voice 
grew cold and hard. “You! Ir it had 
not been for you, Trenton would 
have destroyed the Altar long ago. 
If it were not for that red lur.? of 
your witch-beauty, there would be 
peace on our planet.” 

The old man moved forward, slow- 
ly. Drayatha lifted a hand. She held 
Trenton’s discarded beam-gun. “An- 
other foot and you die, old one.” 

Mani stopped. He went on dis- 


passionately, “If you die, Kiryla 
and Trenton will rule this world to- 
gether. They will destroy the Al- 
tar, remove all danger to his world 
and ours. He will be locked here, 
unable to return to his own Earth, 
but he will have Kiryla...” 

Mani leaped. 

He drew on all the strength in 
his ancient body, made himself a 
human catapult to cross that ten 
feet of space. Drayatha’s beam-gun 
was spitting green fire, but he was 
slamming into her, toppling her 
backwards even as he died. 

Trenton shouted, leaped forward, 
staggered. The pain on his snapped 
ribs shot scalpels of agony through 
him. 

He would not have been in time. 

For one long moment, Drayatha 
and what was left of Mani poised 
motionless there, on the crest of 
that blinding brilliance. Streamers 
of white energy flared up around 
her, caressing, stroking, laving her 
in their radiance. Her hair sparkled 
redly. Her body arched, arms lifted 
to Trenton. Her green eyes were 
wide, calling, luring, summoning... 

And then — 

There was only the timeless 
white brilliance, suspended in mid- 
air. 

Drayatha was gone. Mani was 
gone. 

Kiryla lifted the beam-gun from 
Theg's dead hand. She v/alked to- 
ward the Altar, lifted the gun. She 
depressed the trigger. 

Green fire met white, locked with 
it, licking, probing. The white fire 
grew verdant, and the green flared 
white. They formed a single high 
tongue of iridescence. . .and winked 
out. 

The room was dark. Trenton 
heard the beam-gun clatter to the 
floor, heard Kiryla walk toward him. 
She touched his hand with hers, led 
him with her toward the doors. 

Sunlight blinded them for an in- 
stant. Kiryla threw back her yellow 
mane, stared up at him with prob- 
ing blue eyes. She whispered, “You 
loved her, Trenton?” 

“No... yes! I — I don’t know. One 
part of me did, the part thev made 
(Please turn to Page 100) 



MARVEL PICKS THE BEST IN 
BOOK REVIEWS - 4 NEW SF NOVELS 




1 

1 

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221 

HE 

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2.50 j 


This, the first offering In the Doubleday Science Fiction 
line, is what the publishers privately refer to as ''a bridge 
novel". By this they mean an unusual adventure book designed 
to lead the lay reader across the fey gap to the scienti-fictionist’s 
worlds of wonder. For this purpose 
they cautiously venture only 10 years 
into the future, into a familiarly tense 
world of Iron Curtain. With curt irony 
the world learns from Palomar that it 
would be ridiculous to lose its atomic 
temper at this point, as a rogue planet 
our solar system and it’s curtains for all 


by Max Ehrlich I 

Doubladay j 

w, r. j 


has wandered into 
Earth in a matter of 24 months. 

It is interesting to observe that this When Worlds Collide formula, cliched as it 
has become to the aficionado, apparently has caught fire with the man in the street, 
for THE BIG EYE has become a book club selection is being contemplated for 
radio broadcast, and the latest news on it is that it will be filmed! 

So, tho it has nothing new for the s-f sophisticate, its recommendation to a friend 
would be a good investment toward the publication of further stf by Doubleday. 


• — Weaver Wright 

In Winter '49 A. E. "Sian" Vogt, Ever- 
ett "Checklist" Bleller, Lewis "Pseudo- 
nyms" Padgett, Sam "Historian" Mos- 
kowiti and myself, a fan, — 5 polices out 
of 12— picked THE WORLD BELOW as 
one of the 17 Basic Books of Science 
Fiction in the Arkham Symposium. 

It earned 4th place. I, personally, after 
reading science fiction since 1926 and 
having collected around 3000 books and 
magazines on the subject, unhesitantly 
class THE WORLD BELOW as my No. 1 
all-time favorite. 

It is good to have THE WORLD BE- 
LOW back in print again after 20 years as a collector’s item, but it is regrettable 
that Shasta has not accorded this masterpiece the format deserved by the classic. 
The ends ot commercialism have been served by an announcement dominating the 
jacket This is a Novel of Science-Fiction — and while this is a significant com- 
mentary on the current pulling power of the expression science fiction itself, one 
feels that for $3.50 one should be entitled to a new printing (the book is litho- 
graphed) with a full color — even wraparound — jacket and a generous helping of 
top-notch interior illustrations. The lack of mood-matching artwork is tragic. 

However, there can be no quarreling with the quality of Mr. Wright’s chef- 
d oeuvre. His time-tour-de-force transports the reader to the enthralling alien world 
of half a million years hence, where we are treated to an atmosphere of enigma, 
wonder, awe, terror and tenderness the like of which, to my mind, has never bera 
equalled in this branch literature. Poised, plausible, poignant and picturesque, 

98 



MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


99 


this supreme achievement in fantastic adventure abounds in tbot- variants. In THE 
WORLD BELOW Fowler Wright combined the advanced imagination of Olaf Sta- 
pledon with the psychological brilliance of Robert Heinlein. 

As the book concludes, tijere is the possibility that the protagonist may return to 
the future, to the weird w'onder world of the Amphibian and the Dwellers, the 
Frog'Mouths and Bat-Wings, the Opal Way and Invisible Bridge, the engrossing 
debates on the qualities of justice and mercy, morality and criminality. It all depends 
on his wife, Clara. Clara, you have kept us waiting 2 decades for a sequel: For 
heaven’s sake, Clara — ! 

—Forrest J. Ackerman 


If Weinbaum were alive, I fhirrk he would give 
Heinlein an "Oscar" for the creation of Willis. 
Willis is a Martian brainball w'ho sees all, hears 
all, and tells all — upon proper provocation. Then 
again, sometimes this animated wire-recorder in 
animal form gets wound up and spills more beans 
than he’s s’posed to. Willis is awfully loyal but 
not overly bright. 

Willis is the pet — companion is a more apt 
term — of a young boy on Mars, Jim Marlowe. Jim, 
with his friend Frank, live in South Colony. Dur- 
ing tlie book the boys — sometimes helped and 
sometimes hindered by the indigent beachball-with-brains—uncover a plot to pre- 
vent migration to North Colony. There is a lot of trouble before the scoundrels ate 
scotched. 

This book is definitely recommended to every science fiction enthusiast. If the 
plot does not sound like any great shakes, don’t worry about it: it's the "touches’* 
that make it terrific. Heinlein makes a hell of an interesting, unhackneyed planet out 
of Mars, with Martians that are literally out of that world. RED PLANET gets my 
green light: go buy it! 

■ Weaver Wright 


1 would rather put a bullet thru my brain than 
live in Orwell's world of 35 years hence. 

So, I imagine, would most every reader of MAR- 
VEL SCIENCE STORIES. That should insure 
around 100,000 sales for "1984” — followed by 
100,000 suicides if convinced that Orwell has 
shown the evil shape of things to come. This is 
a shape more horrifying than anything out of Poe 
or Machen— or Hitler, to alternate from the fic- 
tionally frightening to the revoltingly real. 

"1984”, for those who value integrity, person- 
identity, freedom, will prove an upsetting 
emotional experience. This is the book you’ve heard about; you should read it. It 
speaks for Itself; it shouts for itself, it shrieks. 

If (Sanity save the day!) the 1984 of Orwell should materialize, and you have 
not eliminated yourself berore it’s too late, you will probably fit into the Outer 
Party, and find yoursclt living in a glass house. You will have no privacy — ever. 
Awake, your face will be tele-scrutinized by the Thought Police for even a suggestion 
of doubt of the propaganda put out by the Party; asleep, even your dreams (if not 
your wife or children) may betray you. Your sex-life will be stifled, your hate-life 
stimulated, war will be unending, you will believe that WAR IS PEACE, FREEDOM 
IS SLAVERY, IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH. Semantics will be scrambled into a 
null-Korzybskian insanity called doublethink, and in the end you will believe that 
black is white, day is night, two and two make three, five, or even four. You will 
not simply say these things with your tongue and deny tb^ with ycHir mind: you 
will believe them. 


^ 


NINETEEN 

by Hk late 

EIGHTY- 

George 

FOUR 

Orwell 

314 P 9 S. 

Harcourt 

$3.00 

Brace & Co. 


RED PLANET 

by Robf. Ji,- Heinlein 
SCRIftNER'S 
211 Pgs. — $2.50 


100 MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


You will believe anything after a visit to Room lOI. Paradoxically, I cannot tell 
you what is in Room lOI, and yet you — and perhaps you alone — know. And you 
would do anything on earth to avoid enduring the horror tliere. Room lOI is the 
ultimate refinement in the Ministry of Love, where anyone (outside of the animal- 
istic proles) who thinks unorthodoxiy (just thinks, mind you, not necessarily acts) 
is taken to be tortured. Every day some acquaintance or associate of yours is being 
turned into gas and dispersed into the stratosphere, whereafter it is denied he or she 
ever existed. 

Every evidence of the individual's existence is erased. Every photograph, every let- 
ter, every possession — every memory in others’ minds. The name of one who is 
vaporized is never spoken again, never thought again; history holds no record that 
he or she ever was born. Many people are busily employed altering the records of 
the past at all times to conform with later developments. For instance, you may se- 
cretly think that you remember aeroplanes from your childhood, but there is not a 
scrap of evidence left in the world to disprove that the Party did not invent them 
so long ago — in fact, the history books say so. 

The ramifications of this monstrous misshaping of mankind’s mentality are too 
enormous to dissect in detail in a limited space. And this is not a book that should 
be summarily synopsized. The full 314 pages want to be read thoughtfully for the 
cumulative crescendo. I have not encountered a book in over tv/o decades of science 
fiction reading that has chained humanity behind such a diabolical extrapol-eight- 
ball. Atomic bombs, bacteriological w'arfare, hideous mutations and the like seem 
somehow endurable beside the assault on human dignity that hollows men out and 
fills them up in such an inescapable, mind-retching manner as Orv/ell pictures. 

This is a multibicarbonate hook. Ground glass would be softer in your intestines, 
and you’d better get a good grip on your sanity before starting it. '’1984” is no bed 
time story, it is a warning in scientifictional form of a very bad time indeed if per- 
verted technologists achieve the ultimate in power and control. 

— Forrest f. Ackerman 

[Note: "1984” has been dramatized on the radio by NBC, with a com- 
mentary by James Hilton, author of "Lost Horizon". Word now comes 
that, iilce John Taine’s "Green Fire", it will be produced as a play; and 
Mr. Ackerman states, "I have every confidence that the film industry will 
not overlook this powerful book In its search for screen-worthy science 
fiction, and It will — properly treated — make one of the most dynamic 
motion pictures ever produced.") 


TEMPTRESS OF THE TIME FLOW by Gardner F. Fox 


(Continued from Page 97) 
in the psychiatric chambers. The 
other part... the way I am now...” 

**Yes, Trenton?” 

“Kiryla. . .there is no one but you. 
You know that.” 

She flung white arms about his 
neck. Her lips were smooth and 
sweet, cool and comforting. She hid 
her face against his chest, v/hispered, 
“We will make a new world, here. 
You and I. . . Do you mind never go- 
ing back to Earth?” 

“No, of course not. I am happy 
with you. WeTl work together unite 
Min-dir and Llinana-Kir into a great 
empire.” 

Faintly and from far away, so 


deep inside him that he thought it 
must be his own thought, a voice 
called. Ales, Trenton! Her lips are 
cool but mine are hot. She will com- 
fort, but I will provoke! Find me, 
Trenton. Come looking for me in the 
time flow. You can do it. In the 
model of the Altar ... .back in Min- 
dir City, in the Temple! I will be 
waiting. Somewhere in space, some- 
where in time... for y^u. Trenton/ 

He shook himself, took Kiryla’s 
hand and went down the steps, to- 
ward the palace. He needed Kiryla 
to forget the other side of him. She 
could make him forget — if she were 
strong enough. 

But — was she? 



THE DAY THEY 


Those other-world invaders should have I mm CHADWICK 

picked some place besides the park in 
Eastboro to land their Flying Perisphere 

Thirty-seven R. Because the Selectmen of Eastboro would never stand 
for that kind of funny business 


LANDED 


by 

PAUL 


T he first cor went by Sam 
Ilolt‘3 backwoods filling sta- 
tion at three o'clock. Sam fig- 
ured the time aiteiv/ards because he 
had just pulled up the sleeve of his 
coveralls to see v.'bcn the heck Ed 
Dennis v/as coming to spell him. Ed 
v/as supposed to have been there at 
tv/o. 

Sam was down in the grease pit 
giving his own jalopy a going over 


because business v/as slack and be- 
cause there wasn't anything much 
else to do. When he stuck his long, 
horsey face out to look for his sock- 
et wrench, he saw the car go by. 

It was speeding dike one of those 
crazy whippet dogs over at the East- 
boro track. A big, dirt-colored sedan, 
its tires made a whimpering sound 
as it whizzed along doing at least 
seventy, barely holding the road. 


101 


102 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


Sam saw the set face of the driv- 
er. Back of him was a bunch of old 
ladies hanging onto each other and 
trying to keep their hats from fall- 
ing over their eyes. 

“Whoa!” yelled Sam. But the car 
was already out of sight, churning 
on towards Higginsville. 

“Must be a fire some place,” Sam 
decided. 

He felt sure of it a minute later 
when three more cars came whoosh- 
ing up the road. They were all go- 
ing in the s«4me direction and all 
were crowding the speed limit. 

Sam climbed out of the pit, went 
down in front of the gas pumps and 
watched as they passed. 

One driver made a queer face at 
him through a side window. The 
folks in all three cars looked scared 
about something. 

Scratching his left ear wonder- 
ingly, Sam stared down the high- 
way at the rear ends of the speed- 
ing autos. They didn’t tell him a 
thing, but he had a queasy feeling 
in his stomach. Looking the other 
way, he started whistling through 
his teeth. 

Another bunch of cars was al- 
ready in sight, lurching and crowd- 
ing, trying to pass each other. Sam 
gaped as they sped by with motors 
roaring, horns screeching and tires 
whining. 

The queasy feeling in his stomach 
got worse. Walking back to the sta- 
tion, he went inside and pulled the 
phone off the hook. He tried to 
reach his friend, Bill Tweeks, in 
Eastboro, but there w^asn’t even a 
line hum. Muttering, he went over 
to his little plastic radio that never 
failed him, sv/itched it on and lis- 
tened. That was dead, too. 

Sam said, “Gol dang it!” and 
spat. 

He slouched down to the road 
again, planted himself in the middle 
of it, feet wide apart, and waited. 
When the next car showed up he 
began flapping his arms and cap. 

It was coming fast like the other- 
ers. The driver started hooting for 
Sam to get out of the way, but Sam 
wouldn’t. The driver lost his nerve 
at the very last second and 


screeched to a stop with his bump- 
er against Sam’s knee. 

“Don’t like to pester you,” Sam 
said apologetically, “but what’s the 
ruckus about?” 

The driver, a paunchy well- 
dressed man of fifty, a salesman 
Sam guessed, stared at him with a 
doughy face. 

“Where’ve you been, son? Don’t 
you know they’ve landed?” 

He jerked a thumb back toward 
Eastboro. Then, before Sam could 
ask him another question, he stepped 
on the gas and sped off. 

AM WAS excited now, though 
his lean Yankee face didn’t show 
it. It showed no more emotion than 
his grandfather’s face had that day 
at Gettysburg; no more either than 
his Great-great-great-Uncle Asa’s 
had when the Redcoats swarmed up 
Breed’s Hill. 

Sam got his car off the grease pit 
track, backed around and turned 
into the highway. He headed 
straight for Eastboro. 

Other folks might be going south, 
but Sam Holt was going north. If 
something or somebody had landed 
in Eastboro he wanted to know 
about it. His kinsmen had always 
been a curious sort, liking to keep 
sharp tabs on things. 

A lot more cars came whizzing 
along the road ahead of him and 
Sam had to jounce down into the 
ditch a couple of times to keep 
from being hit. 

“I’ll tell the constable about it,” 
he thought. “He’ll make it hot fer 
these fellers.” 

One car finally stopped ahead of 
him and a man thrust a perspiring 
face through the window. 

“T urn around, young feller. 
You’re going the wrong way.” 

“Why?” demanded Sam. 

“ ’Cause they’ve landed. That’s 
why. You don't want to be jailed or 
shot dead, do you?” 

“Who's landed?” asked Sam. 

“The Greenies. They came right 
down in Eastboro like they said 
they would. They’re roundin’ up 
folks right now.” 

“Who in heck’s the Greenies?” 
Sam wanted ' to know. 


THE DAY THEY LANDED 


103 


“Don’t you listen to the radio, 
young feller? That broadcast wasn’t 
no soap opera like people thought. 
The Greenies are smack dab in East- 
boro right this minute.’’ 

“I was down in the grease pit,” 
explained Sam. “Been there two 
hours. I didn’t hear nothin’. Who’s 
these Greenies?” 

The driver of the other car mut- 
tered something profane, shook his 
head reproachfully and threw in the 
clutch. 

Sam drove on, too. He had a hard 
time getting into Eastboro, hard, 
that is, till he had crossed the 
bridge over Catfish Creek and was 
close to the head of Main Street. 
Then all traffic thinned out. There 
was nobody in sight anywhere. It 
was just like being in town Sunday 
afternoon when there was a big 
church picnic in Gellert’s woods. 
Sam rattled on till he came to the 
park. 

He slammed on the brakes and 
gawped when he saw the big, funny 
looking machine that rested on the 
grass. It must be a flying machine, 
he guessed, for it didn’t have any 
wheels and he didn’t see how else 
it could have got there except by 
flying. It was just a big, smooth 
globe of shiny metal with short fins 
sticking out. There was a round door 
close to the ground on the side, sort 
of like the ash clean-out in a fur- 
nace. 

Sam’s gawping was interrupted by 
the arrival of two short, squat men 
in queer green uniforms. They came 
right up to his jalopy and stuck 
their heads through the open side 
windows. Their faces had a green- 
ish cast, too. They had round fea- 
tures like soft biscuit dough with 
little black raisins for eyes. 

“Halt !” said one of them. He had 
a silver tube in his hand no bigger 
than a lead pencil and he pointed 
this at Sam’s head. 

“Am halted,” said Sam. “You fel- 
lers from a circus?” 

They looked straight at him blank- 
ly, their little raisin eyes expres- 
sionless. 

“What’s circus?” asked one in an 
odd kind of English that Sam had 
never heard before. The accent 


wasn’t Polish or Finnish, German, 
Russian or Italian. The chap didn’t 
look like a Swede either and he 
wasn’t any Jap. He didn’t look like 
much of anything that Sam had ever 
seen. 

"I thought everybody knew what 
a circus was,” Sam said. “Thought 
all kids went to ’em” 

“We do not have it,” said the man 
on the right. He jabbed the silver 
tube closer to Sam. “You will come 
see the leader.” 

"Sure,” said Sam. “Mighty glad to 
talk to him.” 

He unwound his long legs, 
climbed down out of his jalopy and 
walked between the two green men 
toward the Eastboro postoffice. 

W HEN HE got close he saw a 
group of subdued looking 
people in front of it being guarded 
by other green men with funny lit- 
tle tubes. Bert Willis, the grocer was 
there. So was Jim Howe, who owned 
the feed store, George Mills, cash- 
ier in the People’s Savings Bank, 
and old Mrs. Cora Fink who ran the 
New Eureka Bakery. They seemed 
too scared to notice him. Sam took 
another long look at the big, globe- 
like flying machine there in the 
park. 

“What’ll they think of next!” he 
thought. 

He was taken inside the postof- 
fice and led back behind the racks 
of letter boxes. A Greenie with 
especially dull black eyes and some 
sort of fancy doodab on his uniform 
sat at the desk where old Hiram 
Crawford, the postmaster, usually 
sat. Hiram wasn’t anywhere in sight. 

The Greenie raised his round face 
and stared at Sam 

“Who you call you?” he said. 
“Where you come from? All people 
are supposed accounted for.” 

Sam shook his head. 

“I heard the Greenies had landed. 
I just came to see what they was 
like.” 

“You did? So!” The leader 
lowered his small, heavy lids crafti- 
ly. “You afraid of us, are not?” 

“Ain’t seen nothin’ yet to be 
afraid of,” said Sam. 

“Oh, so? If out back of this build- 


104 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


ing you care to look you will per- 
haps have a change of mind. People 
of this town they were. Some liqui- 
dation there had to be.” 

“You mean you’ve been killin’ 
folks?” said Sam aghast. 

“A few for whom quieting was 
essential,” said the Greenie leader. 

Sam lifted his grease-smeared fin- 
ger and shook it fiercely under the 
Greenie’s nose. 

“We don’t cotton to lawlessness 
in Eastboro, mister!” 

“Lawlessness!” A smile played 
around the Greenie’s puffy lips. 
“Lawlessness this is not, my fellow 
so smart. We are the law — the new 
law. Everyone to obey it have got.” 

“There a/n’t no new law,” said 
Sam. “Law’s same as always, unless 
the Selectman change it. Even then 
it has to go through town meetin’ 
an’ be put to a vote. Fellers have 
give their lives here in Nev/ En- 
gland ever since the time of George 
Washington to see that the law’s 
kept simple an’ straight. Did you git 
a permit to land in the park with 
that contraption?** 

The Greenie gave a visible start 
and looked at Sam fixedly. 

“To liquidate you I am disconso- 
late to require,” he said. “Necessity 
of new regime demand extirpation of 
malcontents.” 

“I ain’t no malcontent,” said Sam. 
“I’m satisfied with the U.S.A. and 
with this here town. Us Yanks don’t 
like to pay taxes, but we do it just 
the same — like we obey the law even 
if we do grumble. It won’t do no 
good to kill me, mister. There’s a 
lot more fellers like me back in 
these woods. They won’t stand fer 
this kind of ruckus. Neither will the 
Selectmen. They like it nice an’ 
quiet ’round here.” 

The Greenie leader leaned for- 
ward and his odd voice sounded al- 
most distressed. 

“Earth creature please note,” he 
said. “You do not understand. Not 
merely Eastboro, not just this coun- 
ty, state or country — the whole 
world, it is ours. This is the New 
Regime. Advance Unit Four Twen- 
ty, we are called. All habitable of 
the planets soon to be taken over 
and run by us.” 


“Nuts!” said Sam. “You talk big, 
mister, too big for your britches. 
Wait till the folks in Higginsville 
hear about this. There’ll be a gang 
come here after you.” 

“That will be impossible,” said the 
Greenie leader sharply. “Ten miles 
around this village there is impass- 
ale mesotronic neutralizer now 
created. To get through it nothing 
can. Military tanks, not even. High- 
explosive shells, no better. Atomic 
bombs, futile.” 

“Golly!” said Sam. He scratched 
his ear. “What in thunder did that?” 

“We did it, so. Flying Perisphere 
Thirty-seven R. Inverse turbos stead- 
ily rotating to cut gravitational 
lines, create electric field and dis- 
turb mesotronic catalysis in orbit of 
atom. Science of Earth infantile 
against us. To obey us all must.” 

“I don’t like it,” said Sam. 
“What’s more, I don’t aim to stand 
for it.” 

The Greenie drew his brows to- 
gether and gave a quick command 
to one of his men in a strange lan- 
guage formed by chattering monosyl- 
ables. The guard, clutching his lit- 
tle silver tube, pulled Sam gently 
by the arm. 

“You will please to come with me 
a moment, Earth Creature.” 

Sam allowed himself to be drawn 
toward the back of the post office 
till he got opposite the side door 
where they sometimes took in the 
mail during the Christmas rush. 
There he suddenly raised his knee, 
hit the Greenie guard in the stom- 
ach and bolted as the man fell over. 

T HERE WAS a zut sound in the 
air beside him as he reached the 
door. The door frame disintegrated 
in a puff of vapor by his shoulder 
and a hole a foot round appeared. 
It was as neat as if Carpenter Bert 
Forkins had made it with his com- 
pass saw. 

“Golly!” Sam muttered again as 
he dashed across the street. 

There was another zut just then. 
A hickory tree fourteen inches in 
diameter melted in its middle and 
tipped over sidewise with a swish. 
It almost squashed Sam like a bug. 
“Judas!” he yelled. 


THE DAY THEY LANDED 


105 


He ducked behind the fallen tree 
and ran for it then, going rirht by 
the big metal flying machine. 

The loudest and final zut really 
scared him. It burned one of his 
trouser legs off at the cuff and cut 
through the marble column on which 
the statue of Daniel Webster stood 
with his hand upraised. Webster 
took a header into a tulip bed and 
stayed there with his feet sticking 
into the air. 

Sam got out of sight behind the 
People’s Bank Building, scooted out 
of town and kept running till he was 
exhausted. 

As soon as he got his breath he 
was mad at himself for running, but 
he was even madder at the Greenies. 
The trousers that had been burned 
were a new pair of summer tweeds 
that he had bought at the Broad- 
way Bargain Store in Higginsville 
a week before. They had set him 
back six dollars and ninety-eight 
cents. 

He found a hiding spot in a clump 
of bayberry bushes in the hills on 
the west side of town and he lay 
there thinking. Looking over into 
Eastboro he could just make out the 
top of the Greenies’ flying machine. 
It looked shiny and pretty with the 
afternoon sun gleaming on it. But 
the sight of it kept Sam feeling mad 
as all get cut. 

It was then that he remembered 
the granite quarry that had belonged 
to old Albert Smith and that Smith 
had left to his no-good son, Freem, 
who was too lazy to work at it. 
There just might be something use- 
ful in that quarry. 

Sam got up and went scuffling on 
through the bayberry bushes and 
into the pines. Ten minutes’ walk 
and he was on top of a hill, staring 
doT/n into a hole in the ground 
where granite slabs had been taken 
out. 

There was some greenish water 
in the bottom of it and a half dozen 
fat bullfrogs squatting around on 
the rocks, sunning themselves. 

Mad as he was, Sam couldn’t re- 
sist the temptation to shy a stone 
down at them. He grinned to see the 
way they dived under. It was just 


one of his weaknesses. He’d never 
been able to see a fat old bullfrog 
sitting all comfortable-like without 
wanting to make him jump. 

He walked down a rough road into 
the quarry and reached a tar-paper 
shack. There was a rusty padlock on 
it and Sam looked around for some- 
thing to bust it open with. He found 
an old iron spike and a hunk of 
granite. 

W HEN HE reached the door, 
though, he saw that someone 
had got there ahead of him. The pad- 
lock was split in two like a nutshell. 

Sam pulled the door open, looked 
inside and grinned. 

Eddie Whittles, the town idiot, 
who worked for Mrs. Fink at the 
bakery, pulling a little cart around, 
was sitting in the gloomy interior, 
perched on a red box, shivering. 
When he saw Sam he raised his arm 
and pointed toward Eastboro. 
“Zoo-o-oo-zut !” he said. 

His under lips sagged. He rolled 
his eyes, rested his hands against 
his stubbly face and rocked gently 
back and forth like a homesick ape. 

“Don’t go tippin’ over that dyna- 
mite!” Sam cautioned. “Get up an’ 
let me look at it. Maybe the mice 
have ate it up.” 

Whittles got up obediently and 
shambled away. 

Sam paid no attention to him 
while he raised the lid and looked 
the dynamite over. There were a 
dozen sticks left, wrapped in stained 
wax paper. He found some percus- 
sion caps, too. There was an old de- 
tonator and a coil of wire over in a 
corner of the shack. Sam tested the 
detonator to make sure it still 
worked. Whittles watched him, roll- 
ing his head and shivering. 

“Don’t let ’em get you down,” said 
Sam. “How would you like to help 
me, Eddie?” 

“Zoo-o-oo-oot !” said Eddie. 

“Sit down,” said Sam. “Let’s rest 
a while an’ talk this thing over. You 
got your idees an’ I got mine.” 

He pulled Eddie Whittles down 
beside him on the dynamite box and 
they discussed the matter while the 
afternoon shadows lengthened. Sam 


106 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


kept staring at his burned trouser 
leg while Eddie said : 

“Zoo-oo-zut!’* 

By the time darkness came Sam 
had it all figured out. Every man, 
he guessed, even one who wasn’t 
quite all there, had some particular 
thing he could do better than other 
folks. He knew what Eddie Whittles 
could do better than anybody in 
Eastboro and he thought he could 
work it in fine. 

“We’re goin* into town,” Sam said. 
‘*We’ll set off a few big firecrack- 
ers v/here they’ll do the most good. 
Those Greenies didn’t get any per- 
mit to land their machine. We can’t 
let ’em stay there. It wouldn’t be 
right. Selectmen wouldn’t like it. 
When I pinch you, Eddie, you do 
that trick of yours like you some- 
times do when you’re runnin’ fast 
with your little wagon. Under- 
stand ?’’ 

Eddie rocked his head forward 
and backward to show that he did. 
He made motions in the air and a 
buzzing noise with his lips. 

They walked down out of the pine 
woods, Sam carrying the dynamite, 
the caps and the detonator while 
Eddie trailed after him with the 
wire and a big sack of dry pine 
cones that Sam had had him collect. 
Eddie began shivering again when 
they got close to the outskirts of 
Eastboro, but he followed Sam like 
a faithful shadow. 

Sam crept in between the build- 
ings, heading for the green. At the 
last he got down on his hands and 
knees and crawled between flower- 
beds and bushes, right up to the big 
gleaming globe of metal in the cen- 
ter of the park. He picked the dark- 
est side, away from the door, and 
he worked silently under the 
rounded belly of the machine while 
tv/o Greenie guards on the opposite 
side carried on a low-voiced conver- 
sation in their strange tongue. To 
Sam it sounded just about the same 
as the language Eddie Whittles 
used. 

A bove his head Sam could 
heat the steady hum of the 
turbos that were somehow making a 
defensive wall all around Eastboro 


so that no help could get in. 

When he got his dynamite placed 
where he wanted it and his caps on, 
he trailed the wire back across the 
park through the shadows and 
fastened the ends to his detonator 
that was hidden in a big juniper 
bush. Eddie crawled faithfullv along 
beside him and crouched at his el- 
bow, peering out at the town. 

Only Greenies were in sight now. 
They were patrolling the streets 
with their funny little tubes in their 
hands. There were about a dozen 
of them altogether, Sam figured. 
Over in the post office the lights 
were on and he could see the head 
of the leader. Sam spat and wiped 
his mouth on his shirtsleeve. Then 
he nodded to himself. 

“Wait here a minute, Eddie,” he 
whispered. “When I come back an* 
pinch you — like this — you do your 
stuff.” 

Eddie bobbed his head again. He 
was smiling now, pleased that some- 
one at last appreciated his one ac- 
complishment. 

Sam crawled back to the flying 
machine, struck a match and tossed 
it into the sack of pine cones. He 
scrambled back to the juniper bush 
as fast as he could. 

By the time he got there flames 
were beginning to lick up out of the 
cones, plastering resinous smoke 
against the underside of the flying 
machine. Sam waited till they at- 
tracted the attention of the Greenie 
patrol over across the street. He saw 
the guards start for the park. Then 
Sam reached out and pinched Eddie 
Whittles in the seat of his pants. 

Eddie raised his head and opened 
his moutii. His face took on the 
ecstatic look of a virtuoso about to 
perform and conscious that he has 
a sympathetic audience. 

A wailing sound came from his 
lips, faint at first, rising bv slow 
degrees into a shivering, ear-split- 
ting shriek. It held the high peak 
of its tremolo in perfect imitation 
of the siren on the Eastboro Fire 
Department’s red truck. This v/as 
the golden nugget of Eddie Whittle’s 
particular genius. It was the trick 
he used to make folks jump and 
scamper out of his way when he was 


THE DAY THEY LANDED 


107 


pulling his own little cart. 

Greenies came running from all 
over town. The patrols broke up and 
swarmed toward the park. The door 
of the post office opened, the leader 
thrust his head out, saw the burn- 
ing cones, heard the siren and came 
running, too. 

Sam waited till they were all close 
to the flying machine, in under its 
belly, kicking and beating the flam- 
ing cones, while others went inside 
through the metal door. Then he 
plunged down on the handle of the 
detonator. 

There was a huge explosion out in 
the park; a deafening roar, a vast 
sheet of orange flame. It knocked 
both Sara and Eddie over, sending 
them headlong in amongst the juni- 
per prickers and making their ears 
ring. 

The big metal globe rose up a few 
feet, split apart like an over-ripe 
squash, then disintegrated into fly- 

[OVERLORD OF EARTH by L A. 

double sun. According to all appear- 
ances it was a world which, except 
for its size, might very well support 
human life. If the air were fit. . . . 

Kerry shrugged. Andrev could test 
the air. If it were harmless and life- 
supporting, well and good — if not, 
that was all right too. He turned to 
the former dictator. 

“Andrev, get up!” 

The big man dragged himself to 
his feet, panting noisily, stood there 
swaying, his head bent far forward. 

“Andrev,” Kerry continued dispas- 
sionately, "I had planned to kill you, 
but I’ve changed my mind. You may 
live. This nameless little world is 
your future home. You wanted to 
rule a world— rule this one. It’s 
yours — forever! Yours— alone !” 

Andrev shuddered. “Alone!” he 
whispered. “Alone!” 

With rocket pistol in one hand, 
Kerry held his breath, opened the 
door and gestured toward the out- 
side. Like an automaton the erst- 
while Overlord stumbled from the 
rocket ship and Kerry wrenched the 
door shut behind him. He sprang into 
the transparent nose of the plane to 
watch. 


ing shards of metal that scattered 
in all directions. One of them draped 
itself in the branches of the fallen 
hickory that had nearly hit Sam. 

When it was over and the flame 
and the noise had quieted down 
there wasn’t a moving Greenie in 
sight. There was only the joyful, 
excited murmur of the townspeople, 
moving out into the street, free men 
and women again. It would be a 
mighty long time before the Greenies 
tried another invasion, when they 
never again heard from this advance 
unit. 

Sam sat up, wiped the juniper 
prickers from his face and got his 
breath. Eddie Whittles rose mum- 
bling at his side. 

"Hated to do it,” Sam muttered, 
looking apologeticjilly down at the 
detonator that had fallen over. “But 
we couldn’t have that kind of funny 
business in Eastboro, Eddie. The 
Selectmen wouldn’t stand for it a 
minute.” 

Eshbach Continued from page 59) 

Panting in the thin air, the spirit- 
less Andrev staggered across the 
gray-green slope to the stream, sat 
down. He looked around him hesi- 
tantly, his hand upon his battered 
face, terror dawning in his reddened 
eyes .... 

High above the little world, seat- 
ed at the controls of the rocket ship, 
Kerry Kord adjusted the viewing 
plate to catch a final glimpse of a 
dark spot on the gray-green expanse 
— Andrev. He manipulated the teles- 
copic instrument till he could see 
him clearly. He hadn’t moved, save 
that the fingers of one hand were 
plucking idly at bruised and bleed- 
ing lips, lips that sagged vacuous- 
ly. ... 

Kerry shut off the view — and in 
his heart was no pity for a man who 
deserved no pity. Grim-faced and 
unrelenting he adjusted the rocket 
ship’s controls to the position he had 
so carefully recorded. 

Lost? He wasn’t lost, as Andrev 
had supposed. He had but to return 
through the Fourth Dimension to his 
own time, and again the Earth would 
be in that particular part of space — 
a world now freed forever from An- 
drev the Overlord. 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


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108 



FIRE BRAND! 


PULSE-POUNDING FEATURE- 
LENGTH NOVELET OF 
VENGEANCE ON VENUS! 

by A. BERTRAbl CHANDLER 


CHAPTER I 

H e came slowly out the door 
of the trading post. He was 
mopping his brow with a 
large, gaudily patterned handker- 
chief. It was hot inside the garish. 


shoddy building, in spite of all the 
efforts of the air conditioning plant. 
It was hotter outside. And the trad- 
er cursed softly, without enthusiasm, 
as a matter of routine. He cursed 
the heat, the humidity, the perspira- 
tion that dripped from the tip of his 
high-bridged nose, that ran in clam- 


Could this then be the notorious Firebrand, and the thinq at her slim waist 
the notorious, blood Weapon? This smalL dark woman with hair cropped 
almost Kke a man's— could she Irave pirated the Terron spaceliner? Bnt 
Fleminq knew he'd hove bis answers perhops sooner than he wished . . . 



109 



no 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


my rivulets down his smooth, hair- 
less body, that saturated the loin- 
cloth that was his only clothing. 

It was almost sunset. 

The blur of light — ^hazy, diffuse — 
that was all that was ever seen of 
the sun from Venus, hung low 
above the western horizon, turning 
the sullen yellow of the sky to hot 
gold. Eastward, darkly ominous shad- 
ows were already creeping up the 
eternal overcast. And there was a 
faint flicker of lightning, a low 
growl of thunder, sensed rather than 
heard. 

Inland from the post stretched the 
marshy plains, the lush, low jungle. 
Distant, more than half shrouded by 
mists, were the unpretentious undu- 
lations of the smooth hills. And to 
the north was the sea — like the sky 
above it, a dirty yeUow. Little, tired 
wavelets collapsed in utter exhaus- 
tion upon the grey beach, well below 
the line of oozing, gelatinous scum 
that was high water mark. And there 
was a brief flurry of foam as some- 
thing big and black broke surface, 
threshed the water with tail and 
fins, then vanished. 

The trader stood at the root of 
the jetty, stared out to the north- 
west. Now and again he raised his 
hand absently, brushed away the 
little winged insects that hovered in 
a dancing cloud around his close- 
cropped blond head. But all his at- 
tention was given to the distant 
skyline. Vague it was, and misty. 
And nothing solid broke the inde- 
terminate union between sea and sky. 
It seemed that nothing ever had 
broken it — that nothing ever would. 
But the trading post, the jetty, were 
evidence that ships had sailed these 
seas. Had sailed . . . 

Already Aphreydite, the little 
freighter operated by the Venus 
Trading Corporation, was a week 
overdue. Long since, the trader 
would have called Port Lanning to 
make enquiries, but for the fact that 
among the cargo that Aphrodite 
should have been bringing were 
spares to replace certain burned out 
components of his radio. 

He was worried. This had never 
happened before. Aphrodite, until 


now, had always arrived with clock- 
work regularity. And the long talk, 
the drinking session, with her skip- 
per had been one of the few, wel- 
come breaks in his monotonous rou- 
tine, one of the things that helped 
to keep him sane. And the natives 
were talking, he knew. He had seen 
them looking out to sea, had heard 
them muttering among themselves 
in their croaking, incomprehensible 
language. And the drums had been 
beating in the low hills, had been 
rapping their intelligence from peak 
to insignificant peak, from island to 
island. 

He was a man alone — one lone 
alien among hostile myriads. His 
weapons commanded respect but he 
knew that, if it came to a showdown, 
he could not hope to stand off as- 
sault, siege, indeHnitely. He allowed 
himself a momentary disloyalty to 
the Corporation, a dull resentment 
against their policy of economy, re- 
trenchment, that had reduced the 
staffs of the ti^ding posts from two 
or three to one. With two men to 
stand watch and watch the post 
would be practically impregnable. 
With two men to man the launch 
the dangers of the hazardous voyage 
to Port Lanning would be more than 
halved. 

He was a man alone — and he al- 
most felt that he was the last of his 
kind upon this steaming world. 
There were times when he would 
have thought so save for the fact 
that, once or twice in the last three 
days, be had heard the drumming of 
rockets, the distant, whistling scream 
of jet-propelled aircraft, almve the 
clouds. 

The sun went down, and the gold 
faded to yellow, to green, and the 
indigo shadows crept across the sky, 
and the lightning was dazzlingly vio- 
let, running down in rivers of vivid 
flmne from the zenith. And where 
the little waves lapped listlessly at 
the sand was a dim, pallid fire, and 
where the line of scum lay along the 
high water mark was a brighter 
light, shining with the luminescence 
of decay, of rottenness. And in the 
hills and in the jungle drum an- 
swered drum, the staccato, coded 


FHIEBRAND! 


Ill 


melody drowned ever and again by 
the crashing thunder, fading and 
swelling as the rising, gusty wind 
veered and shifted. 

The first rain began to fall. 

For long moments the trader stood 
in the downpour, grateful for the 
refreshing, cleansing coolness. And 
then his body shook with a slight 
chill, and he remembered that his 
alarms were yet to be set and tested, 
and that he would be a good target 
against the glow from the door of 
the post, and that his pale body 
would stand out against the darkness 
in vivid relief with each lightning 
flash. 

Walking slowly, striving to ignore 
the uncomfortable feeling in his 
shoulder blades as he walked to the 
open door, turned his back to the 
hostile marsh and jungle, he went 
inside. And the door shut, and there 
was no longer any light save that of 
the lightning and the phosphores- 
cence of the sea; and the post, 
shrouded in rain and darkness, its 
garish colours forgotten, loomed 
like a fort. 

It was a fort. 

There was a brief rattle of fire 
from the cupola on the roof as the 
trader tested his guns against the 
coming night. 

And the drums, distant but in- 
sistent, answered. 

T he trader pushed aside his 
plate, fumbled in the pouch at 
his belt for his cigarettes. One more 
carton, he thought. / shall have to 
go easy. . . And his mind, as he 
brooded over this last deprivation, 
was that of a filially devoted but 
unjustly punished child. I have al- 
ways been a loyal servant of the 
Corporation, he thought. The trite 
phrase pleased him, and he repeated 
it aloud. And his memory, as he 
smoked the rationed cigarette, ran 
over the countless instances in 
which he had proved his loyalty — 
petty economies, shrewd bargains, 
frank and unashamed swindling. 

He sighed, rose from the table. He 
carried the dirty plates, the debris 
of his meal, into the little scullery. 
The debris of the last meal was still 


there, and that of the meal before — 
but until it became offensive he 
would take no steps to dispose of it. 
He returned to his living room, got 
out his Log and his account books. 
And there he sat until the scratching 
of his pen was drowned by the 
shrilling of the alarms. 

His first action when he reached 
the cupola was to open the switch 
that put the guns on automatic fire. 
Had he not done so they would have 
blasted, in a very few seconds, the 
figure that was staggering through 
the rain, over the short, sodden, 
grass-like vegetation towards the 
post. The stranger, wavering like a 
white moth in the beam of the 
searchlight, was indisputably human. 
Here was no scaly monstrosity, no 
Disney frog trying to look like a 
man, no batrachian undecided wheth- 
er to walk erect or hop. 

The trader cursed. It was obvious, 
in spite of the teeming rain, the 
downpouring torrent that turned 
the beam of his searchlight into li- 
quid silver, that his visitor was a 
v/oman. Again he swore — but his 
oaths lacked any real weight. It was 
a full month since his last leave in 
Venusburg, since his immersion in 
the mercenary delights, the com- 
mercialized ecstacies, of that city. 
And he was hungry for the sound 
of a female voice, the sight of a fe- 
male face and figure, the feel of soft 
woman-flesh against his own. 

But suddenly he became aware 
that the beating of the drums was 
no longer distant, was no longer con- 
fined to the distant hills. The thun- 
der and the lightning had ceased, 
and there was no sound but the inces- 
sant beat of the rain — the beat of the 
rain and the beating of the drums. 
From all around it came, from the 
south and the east and the west. 
And the fringe of the jungle from 
which the girl had run seemed to 
waver, to put out pseudo-pods, to 
creep out over the pallid marshland. 

There was a flicker of fire, then, 
along the jungle verge. And there 
were great gouts of spray tossed up 
at the girl’s feet. And she weaved 
as she ran — and the trader realised 
that her unsteady gait was not alto- 


112 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


gether the result of fatigue, that 
she was putting the unseen marks- 
men behind her off their aim. 

A flick of the hand — and the 
searchlight was on manual control. 
Another deft motion — and the door 
of the post was opened. And then 
the beam swept up, and along the 
tide of dark, glistening bodies, 
showed with pitiless clarity the 
horde of Venusian Swamplanders, 
pointed them out to the questing 
tracer of the heavy machine gun. 
The attack surged forward over its 
own debris. And the flashes of fire 
along its front became more fre- 
quent, and the strange thudding 
made by the rifle bullets as they 
struck the thick, tough plasti-glass 
of the cupola. 

But it couldn’t go on for long. 
Savages the Venusians may have 
been — but they were intelligent sav- 
ages. Nonhutnan they were — 'out, 
like humankind, each individual 
placed a definite value upon his 
own life. 

And so the tide withdrew, and the 
marsh was presently splotched by 
the great, pallid bodies of the scav- 
enger worms that oozed up from 
out the sodden soil, and the song of 
the drums grew distant and still 
more distant, and drum answered 
drum from peak to insignificant 
peak, and rattling, incomprehensible 
messages ran all the long, straggling 
length of the Van Dusen Archipe- 
lago. 

And the trader put his weapons, 
his searchlight, once again on auto- 
matic control, tested his circuits, 
and went down from the cupola to 
meet his unexpected guest. 

CHAPTER II 

S HE WAS SMALL, this woman 
and darkly brunette, her hair 
closely cropped, almost like a 
man’s. And the face was neither 
beautiful nor even conventionally 
pretty, but it had a charm, a vivacity 
under the fatigue, that made uninter- 
esting by comparison the simpering 
Venusburg beauties flaunting their 
half-nude charms in full color all 
along the walls of the trader’s living 
room. 


Her upper garment was in rags, 
and the smooth skin, from shoulder 
to waist, from thigh to broken san- 
dals, was a network of scratches, 
evidence of the thorns and brambles 
through which she had forced her 
way. And the blood oozed still from 
the shallow wounds, spread in a wet 
film over the wet, smooth skin. 

Above the bedraggled loincloth 
was a belt, and from it depended a 
holster, and from the holster pro- 
truded the butt of a heavy pistol. 
Sight of the weapon, of its grained 
wood grip worn smootli and polished 
by long handling, did much to in- 
hibit the emotions that were stir- 
ring in the woman-starved n^n. And 
as he shifted his gaze to her cool 
grey eyes, bis own faltering uneasi- 
ly under the steadiness of her re- 
gard, she spoke. 

“Thank you,” she said simply. 

It was gratitude — but it was grat- 
itude such as might be displayed 
by royalty in the acknowledgement 
of some service performed by a cour- 
tier. There was some power, in her 
or behind her, that demanded assist- 
ance as though by divine right. 

The trader’s glance fell to her 
feet, to the pools of water that were 
slowly growing on the thic’ic pile 
of the carpet. 

“In there,” he said with a gesture 
towards the door, “you’ll find some 
dry clothes... And ointment for 
your scratches. There is some dan- 
ger of infection.” 

“I know.” 

The voice, a contralto that could 
have been sultry, was cool, almost 
disinterested. The man was at a 
loss. This woman was altogether 
outside his experience. But he went 
to his bedroom, picked up a pile 
of garments almost at random, gave 
them to her with a hint of shyness, 
of apology. And he went to a cup- 
board, brought out his last precious 
bottle of whisky, set it, with two 
glasses, on the table. And he emp- 
tied the contents of two whole pack- 
ets of cigarettes into an ornamental 
box that was but rarely used. And 
he ran his hand over his chin, and 
wished that he had shaved. And 
then he went back into his bedroom 
and changed his plain, none-too- 


FIREBftAND! 


113 


clean loincloth for one that was pat- 
terned with gay flowered designs, 
that to his mind had always suggest- 
ed palm trees, guitars, a full trop- 
ical moon. And when the girl came 
out he was disappointed to see that 
she was still wearing her gun. 

S HE HAD achieved a sarong ef- 
fect with the clothes that he 
had given her. It suited her. All 
that she lacked was an hibiscus 
flower behind the ear. Ugly, incon- 
gruous, was the broad leather belt, 
the holster, the heavy pistol. And 
so was the case or pouch that hung 
on her right hip, that was bulging 
with what had the appearance of pa- 
pers. 

The trader, mute enquiry in his 
eyes, poured whisky into her glass. 
When it was almost full she sig- 
nalled to him to stop. Before he 
could fill his own she had raised 
hers, had swallowed its contents 
with almost a single gulp. 

She said: ‘T needed that.” 

“You really must have.” The man 
was shallowly sympathetic. Then — 
“My name is Fleming, Peter to my 
friends. And this place is Hov/ard’s 
Landing.” 

“Howard’s Landing? Tell me, 
Fleming, how can I get to Port Lan- 
ning?” 

“By sea. There is a launch. But 
Aphrodite should be in at any mo- 
ment now. She is a week overdue 
already.” 

“She’ll never come. But how soon 
can we leave? It is imperative that 
I get to the port as soon as possi- 
ble.” 

“Not so fast,” ejaculated Flem- 
ing. There was too much secrecy — 
even though it was unintentional — 
too much high-handed demanding. 
“Before we go any further — -who are 
you? What are you? What are you 
doing here? And — ” he had just real- 
ised the calm certainty with which 
she had made her statement “ — what 
do you know about Aphrodite?” 

“Don’t you know?” It was the 
girl’s turn to be surprised. 

“No. Both my transmitter and re- 
ceiver burned out two days before 
the ship was here last. She should 


have been bringing spares ...” 

There was a little silence, broken 
only by the steady drumming of 
the rain on roof and walls, by the 
distant drums calling from hill to 
hill, from island to island, all along 
the straggling length of the Van 
Dusen Archipelago. And there was 
a sound that could have been rifle 
fire, but it was too far away to 
bring any hint of immediate menace. 

The girl looked at the trader, at 
the useless radio set along the fur- 
ther wall. She got to her feet, sag- 
ging a little, for she was very tired. 
And she went to the receiver, tin- 
kered a while with dials and switch- 
es, satisfied herself that the appara- 
tus was in truth inoperative. Then — 

“You must have heard of me. I 
am Elspeth Van Dusen. And Aphro- 
dite will not be coming because she 
has been seized by us, has been con- 
verted into a gunboat.” 

Fleming said, harshly: “You are 
talking in riddles. But I have heard 
of you. The Van Dusen v/oman. The 
firebrand. And there is a reward 
for you.” 

“Yes.” The girl’s hand fell to the 
polished butt of her pistol. Her face 
told of some mental struggle, of a 
decision struggling to be made, of 
alternatives weighed and balanced. 
The exact nature of the struggle the 
man was never to know — whether 
or not to hand out to him the same 
line of propaganda that had been 
handed out to the other traders, that 
had won most of them to the rebel 
cause; whether or not to count on 
the dangerous, two-edged weapon of 
her sex. 

And the tension in the room was 
intensified as some shift of wind, 
some freak of conductivity, brought 
again the rhythmic throbbing, the 
coded melody, drum calling drum 
from peak to unpretentious peak, 
drum answering drum all along the 
straggling length of the archipelago. 

P erhaps it was the drums that 
decided her. It was the low 
throbbing, beating in time with her 
pulse, the rhythm of her blood, that 
told her that, here and now, the use 
of her womanly weapons would be 


114 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


dangerous — to herself. And she was 
tired, and she doubted her ability 
to keep the situation under control 
should she allow it to develop. 

“This is how things stand,” she 
said, her voice crisp, official. “We, 
the colonists, have risen against the 
Corporation. Most of the cities are 
with us, the bulk of the traders. 
And some of the Corporation po- 
lice have deserted to us, bringing 
their arms. We hold the Macrae 
Coast from Port Lanning to just 
south of Venusburg. There is fight- 
ing in De Kuyper’s Land. There has 
been a naval action in the Rynin 
Straits, with heavy losses on both 
sides. And neither of us has air su- 
periority — neither of us has any air 
force to boast about. Most of the 
rockets and jet planes were de- 
stroyed on the ground, by sabo- 
tage. . .” 

“And Earth...?" 

“Earth is neutral. Earth will in- 
tervene only if either side uses 
atomic weapons. The Commissioner 
announced that his duty was merely 
to protect the interests of Terran 
nationals. And — under corporation 
law — there are no Earth nationals 
on Venus. Only the commissioner, 
his staff, and the crews of the two 
space liners still at Port Lemaire.” 

“And you say that most of the 
traders are with you?" 

The girl looked at his face; puz- 
zled it was, incredulous, but not un- 
intelligent. Dispassionately she an- 
alysed him. He has a brain, she told 
herself with a flash of insight, but 
no wind... With distaste, but al- 
most with sympathy, she applied the 
rules of the science, the art, she 
had learned when she was a student 
of psychology, the skill that had 
been of such value to her as a prop- 
agandist. And she saw on what 
fertile ground the seeds of Corpor- 
ation indoctrination had fallen. The 
Corporation was more than bread 
and butter — it was mother and fa- 
ther, it was Earth. And it was the 
friend of the little man who would 
be king, of the type not sufficient- 
ly able, or just a little too unlucky, 
to rise to high rank on any of the 
democratic worlds. That was it. Un- 
der its rule the Corporation gave 


kingship. True — it was only the rule 
of a few square miles of swamp, of 
jungle, over a few hundred or a few 
thousand non-human savages. But it 
was power, the authority to be a 
just or an unjust judge, the sole 
arbiter in disputes, to kill or spare 
without question. For, so long as 
the Corporation’s posts showed a 
profit, no questions were asked. And 
the traders, neither merchant nor 
civil servant nor bureaucrat, but a 
little of all three, held undisputed 
sway over most of the area of Venus 
outside the cities. 

And they hated the people of the 
cities — the intellectuals, the master- 
less men. They hated them for their 
enmity to the Corporation. They 
hated them for their intention to 
raise the far from brainless Swamp- 
landers to human cultural levels. 
For they had long been monarchs by 
Divine Right — and the Corporation 
was their god. 

“Most of the traders are with us,” 
said the girl again. 

“With you?" 

“Of course.” 

“And the others?” 

“Dead.” 

“You filthy murderers!” shouted 
Fleming. He took a step towards 
her, hand upraised, face contorted 
with passion, the loose, weak mouth 
set in a hard line of hate. And he 
stopped when he realized that he 
was looking straight into the muzzle 
of the girl’s pistol. She had drawn 
with the swiftness and smoothness 
of a striking snake — and he did not 
need to be told that she would pull 
the trigger should she think it ex- 
pedient. He had seen weapons in 
women's hands before, but had 

sneered, had laughed, had refused to 
take either the weapons or their 

owners seriously. 

But this was different. 

CHAPTER III 

mm till YOa sit down, 
said Elspeth Van Du- 

” ^ sen. It was more of 

an order than a request. Her voice 
was emotionless. She gestured to- 
wards a chair with her gun. 


FIREBRAND! 


115 


Fleming sat down. He was not 
sorry. His knees were trembling, and 
he knew that the blood that had 
suf^fused his face had fled, that the 
shock of coming hard up against a 
purposiveness that would stop at 
nothing, must have produced a death- 
ly pallor. And his pride was hurt 
and his comforting doctrine of male 
superiority had received a severe 
blow, and he needed time to at least 
— think of some face-saving gesture. 

The woman sat opposite him, the 
lithe grace of all her movements 
struggling through the hampering 
garment of her weariness. And she 
lowered her pistol, but it and the 
hand that held it lay on her right 
knee, could move, if required, with 
deadly speed and accuracy. 

She said: “Some of the traders 
have been murdered. Did you know 
Williamson at Taylor’s Bay?” 

Fleming nodded. 

“He was Venus born. Yet he was 
loyal to the Corporation. He had 
his wife living at the post with 
him. . .” 

...tall, golden o£ hair and golden 
of skin, Eleanora Williamson glided 
through Fleming's memory. . . There 
was the time that ho bad stopped 
overnight at Taylor's Bay on bis 
way to VennsbuTg... And William^ 
son bad been away, visiting the lit- 
tle chief of a nearby village. .. He'd 
returned early that evening, un- 
fortunately but in the eyes of Eh 
eanora had been the tacit under- 
standing that some other time . . . 

“...and she has been murdered, 
too. They flayed them alive, and 
used the skin for their drums...” 

. . . and the memory of Eleanora 
was replaced by the vision of a 
screaming red horror. . . 

“...and it has been the Corpora- 
tion that has murdered them — ^and 
many others.” 

Fleming fought dov/n his rising 
nausea. 

He said; “The Corporation? 
But. . 

“Yes. The Corporation. You saw 
the mob that was after me. Where 
do you suppose they got their rifles? 
And they have machine guns, too, 
and artillery — the old, worn-out 


pieces that have been thrown out of 
the police arsenals...” 

“The Corporation? Arming the 
natives ?” This was the ultimate 
crime, the unforgiveable sin — and 
yet he was not as incredulous as he 
should have been. His reception of 
the story was the crystalisation of 
months, of years of doubts, of dis- 
approval of petty economies, of un- 
necessary harshness towards em- 
ployees. He must have known for 
a long time that his idol had feet of 
clay — but he would never have ad- 
mitted it. It had taken this stran- 
ger, this hated firebrand from the 
cities, to push the false god from 
its pedestal. 

He said, flatly; “I don’t believe 
it.’* 

He almost convinced himself with 
the conviction in his tone. 

“No?” 

HIFTING her gun to her left 
hand, holding it at the ready, 
the girl fumbled in her wallet. Pa- 
pers fell out, littered the floor. At 
last she found that which she want- 
ed — a score or so of sheets of va- 
rious sizes, clipped together. She 
threw them to the trader. And she 
stooped to retrieve the documents, 
the flimsy sheets with their intri- 
cate designs, that had fallen to the 
floor. And Fleming saw his chance, 
and moved swiftly — but not swiftly 
enough. Again he was looking into 
the muzzle of the pistol. And — 

“Next time I fire,” said the girl. 
Then — “While you’re here you can 
pick these up for me.” 

Fleming picked them up. There 
were documents of all kinds. There 
were banknotes of high denomina- 
tions — not Corporation money but 
good, solid Earth currency. Elspeth 
Van Dusen’s eyes narrowed when he 
handed them to her. She could have 
sworn that only reports and similar 
papers, valueless to all save those 
in the movement, had fallen. She had 
made, she knew, a bad mistake. But 
it was too late to rectify it. 

She stuffed the papers back into 
the pouch. She gestured again to- 
wards Fleming’s chair with her pis- 
tol. And — 


116 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


“Read,” she said again. 

The trader read. There were cop- 
ies of orders made by the Corpora- 
tion, of acknowledgments made by 
its agents. There were the originals 
of both orders and acknowledgments. 
And there was a signed, witnessed 
statement made by Fergus, the skip- 
per of Aphrodite, admitting the part 
that he had played in arming the 
Swamplanders. It was damning evi- 
dence, incontrovertible, telling a 
tale of a system in which profit took 
precedence over human work, wealth 
and happiness. The papers could 
have been forgeries. They could have 
been lies coming from the rebel 
propaganda machine. But Fleming 
could not convince himself of this. 
The story they told tallied too well 
with scores of little, hitherto un- 
related facts stowed av/ay in the odd 
corners of his brain, that had never, 
until now, been brought out into the 
light, had never been recognized as 
being the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. 

The trader read on, his brow fur- 
rowed, his whole attitude that of a 
man whose gods are gone, who has 
no gods with which to replace them. 
And Elspeth Van Dusen stuffed the 
other papers into her wallet, the 
banknotes, the millions of credits of 
Terran currency. 

7 was careless, she thought. I was 
a fool. But I am tired. . . 

And she remembered the Spurlinpr 
swooping dov/n to the Port Lemaire 
landing field, the grey-uniformed 
figures of the Corporation police 
falling like ninepins before the fire 
from its guns. And they had board- 
ed the Earth liner, and they had 
dragged Hoare out of his stateroom 
...It was a pity that he had been 
killed by the fire from his own men 
when they were running back to the 
Spurling... And there had been the 
Terran officers — some approving, 
others regarding her and her men 
as no better than bandits. The Cap- 
tain had shouted about piracy and 
had threatened reprisals. The Pur- 
ser had needed no urging at pistol 
point to make him open the safe... 

And unexpected reinforcements of 
police had arrived, and Morrison and 
Blake, who had left the Spurling 


against her orders, had been killed, 
and a withering fire had swept the 
landing field as they were running 
to the plane, and they had all been 
killed... Excepting herself. And 
she had got the Spurling up, and 
the police had opened fire with one 
of the anti-aircraft batteries. Their 
shooting had been wild — but they 
had scored what was almost a di- 
rect hit on the turret drive. 

S HE HAD realised, then, that she 
could never hope to make Port 
Banning. She had headed for the 
coast. So far as she knew all the 
remaining posts were friendly. But 
before ^e could make Howard’s 
Landing the drive had failed alto- 
gether. . . She did not care to dwell 
upon the flight through the jungle, 
the throbbing, insistent drums on 
all sides, the nagging, panic-induc- 
ing memory of what had been done 
to the wife of the Taylor’s Bay 
trader, the mutilated corpse and the 
flies, the fact that she and her par- 
tisans had arrived too late to save, 
and before the scavenger worms had 
done their cleansing work... 

And the fingers of her left hand 
beat a little, soft rhythm on the 
arm of her chair, a staccato melody 
that was in time with the faint, dis- 
tant throbbing, brought by some 
shift of wind or freak of conduc- 
tivity, as drum called to drum from 
peak to unpretentious peak, as drum 
answered drum from island to is- 
land, all down along the straggling 
length of the archipelago. And she 
smiled, and her hand went down to 
caress the wallet at her belt, the 
money that was to be the price of 
ultimate victory. And to her the 
distant drums were the rattle of 
small arms, the thud of explosives, 
as Venusburg fell to the rebels and 
to the Corporation police under Col- 
onel Hendaye — who could be 
bought . . . 

Fleming heard the sound. He 
looked up. And he. remembered, il- 
logically, a girl in Venusburg. She 
had been, he recalled, a queer kid. 
She had liked poetry. It never oc- 
curred to him that, had the dice 
been thrown a little differently, she 


FIRE3RAND! 


117 


herself might have been a poet. And, 
one night in her rooms, he had 
picked up a book, little, bound in 
limp leather. And in a spirit of de- 
rision he had started to read — and 
had fallen under the spell of the 
tinkling quatrains, the philosophy 
of hedonism that they expounded. 
How did it go? 

...Then take the Cash, and Jet 
the Credit go — 

Nor heed the Music oi a Dis- 
tant Drum.,. 

A distant drum. Arise, ye prison- 
ers of starvation... Comes the Red 
Dawn... Oh yeah? 

And he looked at the girl. He saw 
that she was half dreaming, that 
she was seeing and hearing thinp-s 
outside his range of vision, of com- 
prehension. And such was the long- 
ing intensity of her thoughts that 
they half communicated themselves 
to him, carried by the quiyering air. 
He sensed dimly who and what 
she was. And the half-realization 
brought him no closer to knowing 
her, no nearer to sympathy; coloured 
his feelings only with scorn and 
derision. 

Then take the Cash and Jet the 
Credit go... 

CHAPTER IV 

C REDIT... Where did it get 
you? The Van Dusen who had 
been the first on Venus had 
received the credit for his actions — 
and had died a poor and broken man. 
This Van Dusen who hoped to be 
the liberator of Venus... Perhaps 
the history of the future would ring 
with her praises — but what would 
her life be? Danger, the continual 
struggle against adversaries and, 
should the times become more stable, 
arduous, unremitting toil until the 
end. The only true happiness for 
a woman was in the home, with 
children, in the service of the 
stronger sex. Even the Venusburg 
girls got more from life than she 
did. . . 

And the little fool must have a 
cool million in good Earth credits 


in her wallet. And she would take 
them to Rebel Headquarters, or the 
Central Committee, or whatever they 
called themselves, in Port Lanning 
and say : Look what a good girl am 
I. And they would pat her on the 
head and chase her out on some 
other scatterbrained mission... 

The money belonged to the Cor- 
poration. That much was obvious; 
no other individual or group of in- 
dividuals on Venus possessed such 
huge sums of ready cash. It had been 
stolen. But that had been the fault 
of other servants of the Corporation, 
not himself. Besides — by arming the 
natives the Corporation had for- 
feited the allegiance of every right- 
thinking man. And if he should rob 
the thief, deprive her of her spoils, 
he would be rendering a signal ser- 
vice to his employers. It would 
mean that arms from neutral Earth 
could not be purchased, that high 
government officials could not be 
bribed. 

And that was the only service that- 
the Corporation could now expect 
of him. 

Once in Venusburg — and one of 
those notes would smooth his way 
to Home, would buy his passage to 
distant Earth... 

The sound of the drums came 
louder, louder, beating in from the 
jungle, breaking against the thick 
walls of the post like the breakers 
of a long, heavy swell rolling in 
unchecked from the other side of 
the world, rising and falling, set- 
ting the very air a-shake so that 
visual images seemed to shiver as 
if seen over a flame. 

The two in the room roused from 
their reveries, looked at each other 
wi*h something akin to intimacy, 
drawn together in a strange, sex- 
less union by the bond of common 
fear. And the alarm bells shrilled, 
and sharp, distinct, above the 
rhythmic throbbing came the rattle 
of musketry. 

The trader was first to his feet. 
He ran out of the door, up the stairs 
to the cupola on the roof. And when 
he got there his searchlights were 
blazing, and the ugly snouts of his 
guns were swinging from side to 


ns 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


side in small arcs, the noses of small, 
bloodthirsty animals smelling out 
the prey. And the edge of the jungle, 
to the south and the east and the 
west, was alive with little, twinkling 
points of flame, with the ragged 
volley fire of the Swamplanders, 
kept under some semblance of con- 
trol by the mission-educated savages 
who were the Corporation’s officers. 

“Take the eastern sector!” shouted 
Fleming. 

The girl obeyed mutely. And her 
guns, and the trader’s to the west, 
were answering fire with fire, were 
replying to rifle bullets with three- 
quarter-inch explosive tracer. To the 
south, v/here the guns were still 
under full automatic control, the 
tide of attack surged out from the 
jungle, across the swampland. And 
so far it came, and crossed the in- 
visible line drawn and measured by 
the electronic fire control gear — 
and the southern guns added their 
stammering clamour to that of the 
manned weapons. 

Fleming swung his guns around in 
a great arc to sweep the flank of the 
broken attack; on the other side of 
the cupola the girl did the same. 

“It always works !” shouted the 
trader, his face aflame with the 
berserk joy of killing. The Van 
Dusen girl did not reply. Her face 
was serious. She killed efficiently, 
of necessity, and took no pleasure 
of it. She deplored the slaughter of 
those who should have been her 
allies, registered it in her mind as 
another crime for which the Corpor- 
ation would have to answer. 

I ^AR TO THE south the jungle 
was lit by a flash, a gout of vivid 
orange that flamed on the underside 
of the low overcast. Seconds later 
came a screaming roar that passed 
overhead, that receded rapidly, that 
culminated in a pillar of fire and 
smoke and high-flung spray in the 
sullen sea. The crash of the bursting 
shell came seconds before the thud 
of the gun. To the east was another 
flash, and to the west two more. The 
shells fell short and wide; the gun 
to the south fired again and it, too, 
was short. 


Fleming tried elevating his own 
weapons, tried to attain the range 
of the Swamplanders’ artillery, but 
it was useless. The girl saw this even 
before the first tracer were falling, 
all of a mile short, into the dark 
jungle. 

She said: “It’s hopeless. And it's 
only a matter of time before they 
get the range, before they blow the 
fort to smithereens. . .” 

“Artillery...” muttered the trader 
bitterly. “They gave them artillery. 
They never gave me anything heavier 
than a machine gun...” 

His voice was hurt, complaining, 
and it was obvious that the nature 
of the armament issued to the natives 
had utterly destroyed whatever 
vestiges of loyalty to the Corpora- 
tion that were left in his mind. He 
— an Earthman — could be trusted 
only with relatively light automatic 
weapons. Those over whom he had 
been given dominion had been en- 
trusted with the power of gods; the 
means, the ability, to strike and maim 
and slay over a distance measured 
in. miles, not in yards. 

“This launch of yours,” the girl’s 
voice was urgent, “where is it?” 

“The boathouse by the jetty...” 

He loosed off another futile burst 
at the distant guns, winced as a shell 
seemed barely to skim the cupola, as 
another burst hard against the 
southern wall of the post. He looked 
almost reproachfully at the weapons 
that had been the symbols of, the 
means of enforcing, his authority. 
He threw the switch that would put 
them all on full automatic control, 
at the command of the deadly ac- 
curate but undiscriminating brain 
whose sense organs rotated cease- 
lessly and tirelessly atop the cupola. 
Not looking back, not looking at the 
girl, he stumbled down the stairs. 
And as the girl followed there was 
a burst of fire from all guns as a 
fresh attack burst out from the 
fringe of the jungle; advanced, 
wavered ; withered as it crossed the 
invisible line measured and drawn 
by the electronic fire control. 

SHE GOT down into 

the post the trader was 


FIREBRAND! 


119 


packing a bag, throwing into it 
clothing, photographs, the last carton 
of cigarettes, the last bottle of 
whisky. He did not look at her, but 
glanced hurriedly around what had 
been his home, making last decisions 
outside the range of her knowledge, 
her experience, as to what was to be 
crammed somehow into the bag, what 
was to be left for the slimy fingers 
of the Swamplanders. He plucked a 
photograph of one of the Venusburg 
beauties from the wall, placed it, 
not without care, on top of his other 
possessions, pulled the zipper of the 
bag shut with a decisive gesture. 
And he started for the door, the 
bulging container bumping his legs. 
The girl followed. 

Outside the air was hot, humid, 
lit by the flicker of gunfire, by the 
flare of close bursting shells, by 
reflected light from the searchlights 
on the cupola that were still, like 
the antennae of some monstrous 
insect, swaying and dipping, vaguely 
questing. And like that of swift 
flying insects was the passage past 
their heads of singing bullets as un- 
seen marksmen on the jungle verge, 
handicapped by the flickering, 
flaring, shifting light, tried their 
hardest to pick them off ; as Death 
sighed and passed them by. 

They were more than half way to 
the boathouse when the girl ran 
two or three steps forward, caught 
up to the trader, clutched his arm. 

“What?” he demanded roughly. 

"The northern guns in the cupola. 
Are they on automatic control?” 

He stopped, swayed as the raised, 
forward-swinging right foot was 
checked abruptly, was lowered gin- 
gerly to a place beside its fellow. 

“I forgot...” he stammered. 

“Then you’d better go back and 
switch off.” 

Fleming turned, looked at the post, 
black against the beams of its own 
searchlights, against the brief, eye- 
searing flare of the bursting shells. 
And as he watched a whole corner of 
the squat, square building was torn 
away, was dissolved in the incandes- 
cent blast of high explosive. And 
the next shells fell wide, proving 


that the hit had been more a matter 
of luck than skill. 

"You’ll have to go,” she said. And 
the unsteady light gleamed on the 
metallic object in her hand, the gun 
with which she was prepared to 
enforce her commands. 

"But. . .” 

And then the argument was 
settled. A shell landed fair and 
square on the cupola. And the search- 
lights went out, and the guns were 
dead, and there was nothing whatso- 
ever to hinder the inevitable rush 
from the jungle. 

And as the trader fumbled with 
the lock of the boathouse door the 
drums were beating with a note of 
triumph, were closing in from all 
sides, their staccato melody enhanced 
by the noise of the ragged, random 
volleys that, abruptly, ceased. The 
Swamplanders lik^ to take their 
prisoners alive if possible. And there 
were precious minutes wasted whilst 
the trader set the gyro compass of 
the launch to the dock heading, 
waited until the flywheel was re- 
volving with sufficient speed. And 
more minutes were lost when the 
screw had to be cleared of the hastily 
slipped stern line; and the boathouse 
landward door was already going 
down before the battering ranui when 
the launch surged out through the 
seaward entrance, trampled beneath 
her sharp forefoot those who had 
swum out and around to cut her off. 
And the rifles opened up again, and 
the bullets threw up gouts of spray, 
sang with a high, keen note as they 
struck the smooth plastic of hull and 
upperworks, the metal of fittings, 
and glanced off. 

And then they were out to sea, 
into the darkness, under the cover of 
a welcome and opportune bank of 
mist ; followed only by the menacing, 
yet fading, throb and rattle of the 
drums. 

CHAPTER V 

I T WAS hot in the pilot room 
of the launch. The windows were 
down, and the wind, created by 
the motion of the craft, swept 


120 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


through, presented an unconvincing 
illusion of coolness. And the sun, 
climbing slowly towards the merid- 
ian, no more than a diffused blur 
behind the mists, the eternal over- 
cast, added to the humidity with 
every degree of altitude gained. 

Normally, this would not have 
worried the Venus-born Elspeth Van 
Dusen. This was her world, and she 
loved it; and to her Earth, with its 
clear skies, its winds, cool more 
often than not even in the Tropics, 
would have been as uninviting as is 
Mars to the Earth-born. 

But she was tired. 

With Fleming she was keeping 
watch and watch, but her watch 
below had been a matter of fitful, 
uneasy slumber, broken by the 
efforts of the trader to force the 
bolted door into the cabin, by the 
shrilling of the alarm bells when a 
school of the huge, Venusian flying 
fishes attacked, by the hectic, event- 
ful minutes she had spent behind 
the launches machine gun whilst 
Fleming maneuvered the little ship. 

And tiring, too, was the strain of 
keeping a constant check upon the 
trader’s every action, of making sure 
that he was keeping the launch 
headed Nor’ West for Port Lanning 
and not North by West for Venus- 
burg. When she had first come on 
watch she had obtained observations 
— a position line by magnetic dip, 
crossed by a line of soundings as 
they passed over the Clarendon 
Deep. As yet Fleming was playing 
square. Whether he would continue 
to do so she doubted. But she carried 
the means — her hand went down to 
holster — to enforce his unwilling 
loyalty to the rebel cause. And she 
carried in the wallet at her side that 
which would have seduced many a 
man from his allegiance even to a 
cause in which, he most passionately 
believed. . . 

T he launch sHd through the 
oily water, the hot mists, as 
smoothly and easily as something 
in a dream. And some shift of wind, 
some freak of conductivity, brought 
quivering life to the humid air; low, 
on borderline of the senses. 


rhythmically monotonous, drum 
called to drum from peak to insignif- 
icant peak, drum answered drum 
from island to low island, all down 
along the straggling length of the 
archipelago. And the sound that 
should have been a warning of 
danger, that should have brought 
alertness, lulled ; and the ticking 
steering repeater, the ever so slightly 
wavering line drawn by the course 
recorder on its slowly revolving 
drum, swam giddily before the girl’s 
eyes as she strove desperately to 
keep her heavy lids frcnn falling. 
She thought that it would be wise to 
cut out the automatic pilot, to take 
the wheel herself. But to raise her 
hand to the switch was too much 
effort. She started the movement — 
and slumped down in the chain And 
she did not stir when the door of 
the cabin behind her opened silently 
and slowly, a fraction of an inch at 
a time. But when the soft lead 
piping in the trader’s hands struck 
the back of her neck, she jerked 
convulsively. 

He thought at first that he had 
killed her, but then he saw that she 
was breathing. She would have to 
die anyway, of course, some time 
before Venusburg. He had relin- 
quished all thought of claiming the 
bounty on her dead body for, large 
as the reward was, it was small 
compared with the bills that he now 
pulled, with avid hands, from her 
wallet. 

Alive, she would talk. She would 
remain silent, if possible, about the 
plans, the secrets, of the Central 
Committee of the revolution. But 
regarding his theft of what had 
already been stolen, she would need 
no urging. Dead — and they would 
wonder what had become of the huge 
sum that Hoare had been taking to 
Earth. 

So she would have to go. . . 

But first. . . 

He felt the compulsion to assert 
his masculinity, to prove to his own 
satisfaction that this servant of the 
dialectic, of forces outside his 
limited comprehension, was, after all, 
just another woman. And so he found 
some strong cord in the pilothouse 


FSREBRAND! 


121 


locker, and he lashed her securely, 
then dragged her down to the cabin. 
He threw her on to one o£ the bunks, 
returned to the control post. 

And there he busied himself 
briefly with chart and parallel rules 
and dividers, laid off the course 
that would bring the Inunch to the 
Venusburg approaches. The steering 
repeater clicked rapidly as the bows 
swung round to the new heading. 
And that was all that, to the eye, was 
changed. There was still the same 
hot mist, clinging to the oily surface 
of the [water, blowing in stifling 
clouds through the open windows; 
the same flickers of the little red 
light on the alarm panel as the radar, 
the asdic, picked up dangers that 
were too far away to be an immedi- 
ate menace. Fleming pondered 
briefly on the strangeness of Venu- 
sian evolution, on the fact that no 
indigenous life form possessed 
organs, senses, to serve in lieu of 
sight under such conditions as these. 
But the theory — of v/hicli he had 
briefly and disinterestedly read — of 
recent vulcanism did not mean any- 
thing to him. All that he felt was a 
dim thankfulness to something vague 
and far away, a gratitude for the 
more than even chance he had been 
given to bring the launch to Venus- 
burg singlehanded. 

W HEN Elspeth Van Dusen 
woke up the first thing she 
saw was Fleming. He was looking 
at her, his eyes hot and greedy. And 
tendrils of the fog had followed 
him down the short companionway to 
the cabin, were eddying around the 
room, were sucked up into the 
column of hot air that was rising 
above the master gyro compass. 

For some reason this seemed to 
have a significance greater, even, 
than her present predicament. But 
she ignored the behavior of the fog 
in the convection currents, the 
splitting headache, the vile taste in 
her mouth. She looked straight at 
the trader, felt a sense of ascendancy 
as his eyes shifted uneasily. 

But she knew that it was an empty, 
meaningless victory. She knew that 
at any moment now her body would 


go down into the hot sea, to be 
wrangled over by the ferocious fish- 
lizards, the tentacular, deadly horrors 
that defied classification. 

And while she stared steadily at 
the man, she fell a prey to self pity. 
It was hard that it should all have 
to end like this. Not so much the 
death — that comes to all — but the 
shame, the ignominy. For this, she 
had killed, had pirated the Terran 
spaceliner, had fled across De Kuy- 
per’s Land with the shells of the 
Corporation anti-aircraft batteries 
bursting close under her stern. And 
the fruits of her piracy, the price 
of the lives of her men and those 
of the police, the bribe that was to 
have bought Colonel Hendaye and 
his regiment, now became this des- 
picable man's, to fritter away as he 
wished — 

The alarm bells suddenly shrilled, 
and there was a dull shock as the 
launch struck something solid but 
yielding, heeled sharply as her keel 
scraped over the obstruction. And 
Fleming ran up the steps, and there 
was the sound of rapid machine gun 
fire, then silence, then more bursts. 

The girl grinned. It sounded as 
though the trader had his hands full. 
It seemed that he must have run 
straight into a basking school of the 
big fish-lizards. And she allowed 
herself to hope. 

When the launch heeled over it 
had rolled her out of the bunk. And 
she stretched, experimentally, and 
found that she could still move her 
legs, that she could roll over the 
quivering deck. And she found 
that, from a supine position, she 
could lift her feet and, even with 
both ankles bound, manipulate the 
catches of the binnacle doors with 
her toes. It does not take long in 
the telling — but in the doing it was 
an arduous, delicate operation, not 
without pain. 

And it was especially painful when 
she pressed her bare foot against 
the end bearing casing of the gyro- 
scope. And presently there v/as the 
smell of scorching flesh, of burning 
skin, added to that of hot lubricat- 
ing oil. A.nd the instrument pre- 
cessed inside its binnacle, rotated 


122 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


clockwise on its vertical axis, and 
the automatic pilot faithfully 
followed it. And the straight line 
drawn on the chart did not waver in 
its straightness, and as far as Flem- 
ing would know’ — for he, as the fre- 
quent bursts of machine gun fire 
testified, was not overly interested 
in navigation — the launch was still 
hugging closely the rhumb line to 
Venusburg. 

And the time came when Elspeth 
Van Dusen could bear the pain no 
longer. But she was satisfied that 
she had achieved her object.' She 
could see the chart, -the position she 
had obtained when she came on 
watch, and the pencilled course line 
running — even when steering for 
Port Banning — ^within a few miles of 
the westernmost islands of the arch- 
ipelago. She was confident that — 
unless the fog should lift — the 
launch would ground. A.nd she was 
sure that the fish-lizards would not 
easily abandon the pursuit. And for 
a man to be engaged in a running 
fight and, simultaneously, to be con- 
cerned with the safe navigation of 
his vessel is almost an impossibility. 
Especially when his trust is pinned 
to untrustworthy instruments... 

She contrived to shut the binnacle 
doors, wincing when she brought 
pressure to bear upon her scorched 
and blistered feet. She rolled and 
wriggled back to a position just 
under the bunk, to the place, as 
nearly as she could remember, to 
which she had been thrown when 
the launch heeled. And she lay, re- 
laxed, awaiting the inevitable 
grounding, reserving her strength 
for whatever emergencies might 
arise. What they would be she had 
no v/ay of foretelling — she could 
only guess. And unless she fell alive 
into the hands of the Venusians, her 
fate, no matter which v/ay the dice 
fell, could be no worse than that 
which was already in store for her. 

CHAPTER VI 

HE WAS not asleep — although 
she was not far from it — when 
the launch grounded. The 
stranding came in the middle of a 
prolonged burst of machine gun fire 


from the deck. And in the interval, 
the long interval, between the first 
shock and the reversing of the 
engines, the powerful machinery of 
the launch had had time to push her 
well up on to the beach. 

And whilst the engines were still 
going astern the machine gun opened 
up once more. Then there was 
silence, save for the vibration of the 
straining screw, and Fleming came 
down the companionway. He had a 
knife in his hand. Hypnotised, the 
girl stared at the gleaming blade, 
wondered if she had miscalculated, 
if her plans had miscarried. 

The trader said nothing. And as 
he approached she saw that the light 
in his eyes was that of fear rather 
than hate. And she heard, above the 
throbbing of the screw, the sound 
of drums as the Swamplanders’ 
coastal look-out signalled to their 
comrades inland the intelligence that 
a ship had grounded. 

“You’ll have to help me,” he said. 
“You’ll have to cover me with the 
gun while I run an anchor out astern. 
The fish-lizards are still waiting for 
us in deeper water, and the Swamp- 
landers know that we’re here...” 

“Suppose I say no?” 

“You won’t. You daren’t. You told 
me what they did to the Williamson 
woman.” 

“But... I can’t trust you.” 

“And I can’t trust you. When I’m 
carrying out the anchor you’ll be 
pointing a machine gun at my 
back...” His voice was appealing. 
“Can’t you see? We’ve got to trust 
each other.” 

“Have we ? When you’ve got my 
pistol and a couple of million of 
Earth credits tucked into your 

belt...” 

“The money? Look — ” his tone 
was reasonable “ — suppose we split 
fifty-fifty?” 

“And you land me at Port Banning 
— and give me back my gun. . .” 

And whilst they bargained, des- 
perately, the noise of the drums 
sw’elled, drew closer. And with much 
unsettled he slashed with his knife, 
freed her for the part that she was 
to play towards his — and her own?— 
salvation. And he tried to hurry her 



FIREBRAND! 


123 


when she flexed cramped limbs, when 
she insisted on adjusting her dress, 
hunting for and putting on her 
sandals. And the drums were very 
close when they finally went on 
deck, and their appearance was 
greeted by a ragged volley of rifle 
fire, and they could hear the saurians 
drawing too much water, they were, 
to venture into the shallows — 
splashing and snorting and hissing 
only a few yards away, but hidden 
from view by the sea fog. 

Over the land it was relatively 
clear. They could sec the wall of 
the jungle verge loc«ning through 
the mist, passably distinct, but dis- 
torted, seemingly a sky-scraping 
cliff. And they could see the horde 
that was pouring from the jungle, 
spilling out over the marshland. And 
drum called to drum along the broad 
front of the attackers; drum 
answered drum from the swampy 
beach to the low hills inland, beyond 
the jungle. And there was a drum 
in the sky, too ; a curiously regular 
beat that swelled as it came up from 
the soutli, that passed rapidly over- 
head, above the low overcast ; that 
died to a droning mutter in the 
north. 

Klspeth Van Dusen ran to the 
machine gun. She swung the weapon 
in a wide arc, ignoring the bullets 
that went whining by on invisible 
wings. And the staccato song of the 
heavy gun was added to that of the 
Svvamplanders’ drums, of their 
ragged, irregular volleys. And as she 
fired she found time to wonder why 
their own machine guns, their 
artillery, were never in evidence, 
were called in only when all else had 
failed. Perhaps, she thought, any- 
thing more powerful, more deadly, 
than a rifle is, somehow, sacred, is 
to be used only after prayer and 
fasting. . . And her lips curled in a 
thin line of amusement as she 
watched her tracer, bright in the 
dull, hazy air, sweep the Swamp- 
landers’ front, watched the attack 
surge back like a spent wave. 

“Cover the sea !” shouted Fleming. 

H e was in the shallow water — 
only up to his knees, it was, and 


he had slung over his shoulder the 
anchor from the starboard hawse- 
pipe. And he had thrown the wind- 
lass out of gear so that, as he waded 
aft, the chain rattled slowly out of 
the locker. And as he saw the girl 
looking at him he took one hand 
from his burden, gestured down to 
the wallet at his belt. “It’s all here, 
he cried. “So I’d better come back. . 

The girl thought: I suppose so. 
But it’s a pity. The brute is too 
strong — there aren’t many men who 
could carry that anchor out. . . And 
he’s still got my gun... But I’m 
playing for my life as much as the 
money — and if he does break his 
bargain he’ll have our agents on 
Earth to deal with... If I’m alive 
to tip them off... 

And she loosed off a burst to warn 
off the saurians that were still 
splashing and hissing and grunting 
in the fog just outside the shallows; 
and she swung the gun rapidly to 
deal with a fresh attack that came 
surging out of the jungle. 

The rattling of the cable over the 
gypsies of the windlass ceased. She 
looked behind her, her finger still 
on the trigger of the gun, her tracer 
still sweeping the jungle verge, and 
saw Fleming wading back. She saw 
the muscles of his torso bulge as 
he hoisted himself over the gun- 
wale. And then he went to the wind- 
lass, threw it in gear, started the 
motor that would, he hoped, heave 
the launch clear of the sand bar. 

From the north came the sound 
of the strange drum in the sky again. 
And from the jungle the Swamp- 
landers’ drums answered, drowning 
it in a great wave of sound. And the 
machine gun jammed as the forward 
swinging breech block pulled a de- 
fective round in two, jammed the 
projectile into the chamber and 
dropped the battered cartridge case 
into the recoil-actuated mechanism. 
Fleming looked up at the abrupt 
cessation of the sound that was to 
him, to both of them, a song of hope 
— then began to heave fast and yet 
faster at his sternwards leading cable. 

The chain tightened, the links rat- 
tled over the gypsies, down into the 
chain locker. And the launch did not 


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124 


FIREBRAND! 


125 


move. It was obvious that the anchor 
had failed to take hold, was drag- 
ging through the soft sand of the 
bottom. 

With cold desperation Elspeth 
Van Dusen worked to clear the 
jammed gun. She forced herself to 
forget all else but the intricacy of 
interacting working parts, the bent 
and battered cartridge case, the pro- 
pellant scattered over the mechanism, 
the round in the chamber. And she 
got it working, and she loosed off 
the first burst at the onrushing 
Swamplanders — had it not been their 
intention to take the man and the 
girl alive their rifle fire, inaccurate 
though it was, would have accounted 
for them long since — and suddenly 
realised that the drum in the sky 
was overpoweringly loud. 

Swooping down at them was a jet 
plane. She recognised it as one of 
those, fitted with a primitive, fixed 
drive, that had been turned out in 
the Corporation’s workshops at Port 
Lemaire. On the underside of the 
short, stubby wings was a golden, 
rayed sun — the insignia of the Cor- 
poration. And from the guns in its 
nose a stream of shells drew a line 
of angry fire and smoke across the 
wet sand, straight for the launch. 
And she saw the vaned, black shape 
detach itself from the plane’s belly, 
fall with deceptive slowness. She 
threw herself prone behind her gun, 
waited long seconds for the burst — 
and knew that the falling bomb must, 
inevitably, take her for its target. 

S HE SAT up, coughing and retch- 
ing. The acrid fumes of high 
explosive were a bitter poison in her 
lungs. And when the deck heaved 
gently beneath her she knew that this 
was only an effect of the nausea, the 
shock. 

She opened her eyes. 

The deck — only scarred by the 
shells from the Corporation plane's 
guns, by the splinters from its bomb 
— was heaving. Blast is a freakish 
thing. In this case it had lifted the 
launch and thrown it into the deeper 
water just clear of the sand bar. 

The windlass motor was still run- 
ning. And the anchor lifted from the 


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bottom, rattled against the bows, 
jammed in the hawsepipe. The wind- 
lass strained and complained. The 
girl ran forward, switched off, re- 
alised that Fleming was not on board. 

Fleming was where the launch had 
been. He was stretched supine on 
the grey sand. Blood from the gasp- 
ing wound in his side turned the 
sand from grey to black. But he was 
not dead. He stirred, tried to raise 
himself on one arm. He started to 
scream. And a murmurous back- 
ground to the thin, pitiful sound 
was the fast diminishing thunder of 
the drive of the Corporation ship, 
the mutter of distant drums from the 
jungle, where the Swamplanders had 
retreated. 

Throwing the windlass out of 
gear, the girl let go the anchor. She 



126 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


dived, struck out for the beach. After 
a few strokes she found bottom, was 
able to walk, to splash and struggle 
through the warm, muddy water. 
And then she was standing over 
Fleming. He looked up at her, and 
stopped screaming. He looked at her 
as though she was the most beauti- 
ful thing in his world. And then the 
expression on his face faded, was 
replaced by a horrified incredulity as 
she knelt beside him, undid the fas- 
tenings of his belt, stood erect with 
the belt and the wallet and the hol- 
ster in her hands. 

When she was buckling it around 
her own waist — such was her relief 
at recovering the twice stolen money 
that she did not think to step back 
out of reach — he clutched her leg. 

“You can’t leave me !“ he cried. 
“You can’t! You can’t!” 

Dispassionately she looked down 
at him. She saw the wound in his 
side, the splinters of white bone pro- 
truding from the bloody, pulped 
flesh. She knew that she, with the 
aid of the medical kit carried by the 
launch, could never hope to save his 
life. And that his life was not worth 
saving. She felt no sense of loyalty, 
of obligation. Accident had made 
them members of the same species — 
but that w'as all. 

She tried to break away, but he 
clung to her. His fingers bruised the 
flesh of her ankle. And when she at- 
tempted to walk towards the water, 
the waiting launch, she only succeed- 
ed in dragging him a scant inch or so 
over the sand. She stopped, then, 
stood listening to the drums, to the 
staccato melodv that told that the Ve- 
nusians, frightened off by the dis- 
play of Terran power, were muster- 
ing their courage for a last attack. 
She kicked, hard, with her free foot. 
The trader whimpered, the tears ran 
dov/n his face, but he did not relax 
his hold. 

She pulled the pistol from its hol- 
ster. Fleming cried out when he saw 
the ugly weapon, started to scream 
again. And the crashing report 
drowned his high, thin shrieking, and 
his grip on the girl’s ankle relaxed 
and she pulled clear and stood, for 
a brief second, looking down at the 
sprawling, ungraceful body. There 


was no pity on her face. There was 
a faint shadow of what could have 
been regret. She was remembering 
the bodies she had seen — and the dis- 
gust, and the bitter, impotent grief 
and rage — when the rebels stormed 
Palmer’s Ford, over-ran the de- 
fences that had been hastily thrown 
up around the Corporation prison 
there. She remembered the torture 
room of the Corporation police. Her 
own lover had been among those who 
had been put to death there. He had 
died, at last, only an hour or so be- 
fore the surprise attack. 

And she was sorry that this loyal 
servant of the Corporation had died 
a swift, clean death by her gun in- 
stead of a more lingering one under 
the Swamplanders’ knives. 

But it couldn’t be helped. 

And as she waded out through the 
shallows the drums swelled to a cres- 
cendo, and the first of the fresh at- 
tack was advancing on broad, webbed 
feet over the marsh. 

W ^'HEN THE ship loomed out 
of the thinning mists — there 
was no warning, for all the electron- 
ic equipment had been put out of 
commission by the explosion — she 
put the wheel hard over, turned to 
run. Then she saw the ripple of red 
at the stranger’s gaff recognised 
the high forecastle head, the bridge 
set well aft, the twin rocket bat- 
teries at the bow. It could only be 
Madrileno — late Aphrodite of the 
Corporation’s service. And when the 
rocket roared from one of the auxi- 
liary cruiser’s bow projectors, burst 
in the water just forward of the 
launch’s stem, she had already 
stopped, had thrown the engines into 
reverse. 

She lit the last of Fleming’s pre- 
cious cigarettes, sat quietly and wait- 
ed, grateful for the respite, for the 
opportunity to let responsibility fall 
on other shoulders than her own. The 
Odyssey that had started at the Port 
Lemaire landing field, in far away 
Be Kuyper’s Land, was at last 
finished. 

And some shift of wind, some 
freak of conductivity, brought quiv- 
ering life to the hot, humid air; a 
(Please turn to Page 129) 


TRIN by A.J. Burks 


127 


(Continued from Page 37) 
the field edge and out. He grinned. 

“I always knew ray lapses meant 
something!” he said. “Imagine 
lapsing’ fifteen thousand years into 
the past! Fortunately, thanks to you 
and the zranthon tube, we can ‘lapse’ 
an equal time into the future!” 

“You’ll forgive the long years of 
hatred, mother?” he asked. I felt like 
an intruder. “If I had just seen you 
as you are, I’d never have doubted 
you, never! I’ve been longing for 
you so long, all of you....” and he 
called Baird and Partos names I 
had never heard before, would never 
hear again in my lifetime. “You’ll 
forgive us if we hurry, Mr. Lowre?” 
said Joe X. “I’m anxious to get 
home.” 

I had to agree, though now I 
understood the sadness in the eyes 
of Marya Madone. Joe X turned, 
stepped into the zranthon field with 
his mother in his arms, his two 
brothers beside him. 

They began to fade out, swiftly. 

W HEN THEY were gone 
nothing remained of the field 
or the zranthon tube. It was as if 
the field and the tube were being 
denied use in my time. Yet I agreed 
that this was just and right. 

The easy chair remained. 

I don’t believe in reincarnation, 
and what Marya Madone said just 
as she sped away into the future to 
rejoin her husband, taking the rest 
of her family with her, may have 
been a slip of the tongue. And yet, 
I could never believe her capable 
of such a slip. Hadn't she said that 
her family “v/ishes you to know all?’* 
There was that nagging statement 
of Joe X, too, when he had told me 
that yes, he knew he had two 
brother trins. “One is Yesterday, 
One Today, One Tomorrow!” Did he 
mean that individual man existed 
mentally not only in the past, present 
and future, but physically as well? 

I felt, almost, as if my experiences 
with the zranthon field indicated an 
affirmative answer. 

This is what Marya said to me as 
she vanished, her very last words: 

*‘You have not really lost me, Ryal 
Madone!” 


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128 


MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES 


BEHIND THE 
ATE BALL 

A Martian Oddity 


The wife of the Mayor of Eastern 
Canalopolis, Mars, was very nervous. 
She hopped about like a sand-flea. It 
was all because of that man who 
was coming to dinner. 

It was not every night that the 
Mayor’s wife entertained an Earth- 
man for supper; this was the first 
time in Zurnbarian (Martian) history 
that a Karterian (Earthman) was to 
dine on Mars. Ray Bradford was the 
first rocketeer to reach our neighbor 
planet. 

Mrs. Aardvark (whose name purely 
by cosmic coincidence coincided 
with that of a popular terrestrial 
crossword puzzle pet) v/as quite up- 
set at the progress of her prepara- 
tions. Her ten tentacles twitched and 
she wished she had as many hands 
as she tried to manage her pots and 
pans with only tiiree pairs. Mrs. 
Aardvark was world famous (Mars- 
world, that is) for the excellence of 
her cuisine (a French word, which 
did not exist on Mars) and her 
husband had impressed upon her 
that on this historic occasion she 
must reach a culinary pinnacle. 

By divine providence, Bradford 
had landed on the left bank of 
Canalopolis, ancient home of the 
green Martians, who were tradi- 
tional enemies of the purple Mar- 
tians of the right bank, who were 
nova green with envy. Mayor Aard- 
vark was extremely anxious to make 
a resounding hit with the hero from 
Earth by having prepared for him a 
mtal that would, as the Earthmen 
were fond of saying, “melt in his 
mouth”. Aardvari,: — in fact all Mar- 
tians — was fairly familiar with 
Earthian sayings, for interplanetary 
radio had been operating on Mars 
for several years now. Every cul- 
tured green Martian was acquainted 


with Karterian (or English) in 
addition to Vrest Zurnbarian (high 
Martian) as opposed to the dantiz- 
inferno or low Martian mumbled on 
the wrong side of the Grand Canal. 

Mayor Aardvark had heard it said, 
on the Camel Soup Hour, that “the 
way to a man’s heart is thru his 
stomach”. Certain physiologists, nev- 
er having seen an Earthman, argued 
that this meant Earthmen’s hearts 
were located behind their stomachs, 
but Mayor Aardvark interpreted this 
saying on a poetic rather than a bio- 
logical basis. 

At last Phobos and Deimos, the 
double moons on Mars, rose in the 
evening sky, and Mr. Bradford, the 
man from the planet with only one 
satellite, sat at the dinner table of 
Mrs. Aardvark. Mrs. Aardvark, as 
women will, mentally appraised Mr. 
Bradford, and while she found him 
wanting in certain Martian quali- 
ties, she liked him at once because 
he looked her straight in the eye. 
Let us be charitable to Mrs. Aard- 
vark’s mentality and say that she 
was unusually upset, otherwise she 
would have realized Mr. Bradford 
had no choice; It was rather dis- 
concerting that he should have two 
eyes rather than the normal one. 

Then, too, Mrs. Aardvark noticed, 
the Earthman suffered a lack of a 
full set of arms, and had no ten- 
tacles at all, which paucity of charms 
made Mrs. Aardvark feel very sor- 
ry for Mr. Bradford’s wife. (This 
was a sympathy she might well have 
spared the rocketeer as he was in 
fact a misogynistic bachelor who had 
fled Earth to escape the tentacles 
— purely figurative, of course — of a 
neurotic nymphmaniac.) 

Finally, Mr. Bradford was so small 
(only 6’3”) that he had to be ac- 
commodated in the baby’s high-chair. 
But aside from his midget propor- 
tions, and amazing white color, he 
looked almost Martian. 

The household pets — all 17 of 
them — were fed first, of course, ac- 
cording to Zubarian custom; and 
then the guest was invited to eat. 

( Continued On Next Page ) 


FtREBRANDI by A. B. Chandler 


129 


(Continued from Page 126) 
peak to unpretentious peak... 

...and she smiled, and her hand 
went down with a caressing motion 
to the wallet at her belt. In her mind 
the staccato melody was the rattle 
of small arms, the thud of explo- 
sions, as Vcnusburg fell to the com- 
bined forces of the rebels and Col- 
onel Hendaye’s police. But that 
would not be the end. It would only 
be a beginning. . . 

...while drum answered distant 
drum from island to island, all down 
along the low, straggling length of 
the archipelago.... 

THE ATE BALL 

As an appetiser Mrs. Aardvark 
served baloney and applesauce a la 
banana oil, a combination she had 
often heard of. As Mr. Bradford 
consumed her delicacy, Mrs. Aard- 
vark. noted with satisfaction that 
he lost some of his pallor and began 
to turn a healthy Martian green. 

Then came the entree. With a 
feeling of triumph Mrs. Aardvark 
nudged Mr. Aardvark underneath 
the table with h^r third leg as she 
served the roast horse. That is to 
say, not strictly roast horse, but the 
Zumbarian equivalent, an animal 
famous for its tough meat. Mrs. 
Aardvark was familiar with the 
Earth saying, “I’m so hungry I 
could eat a horse”, and she felt cer- 
tain Mr. Bradford had not had a 
satisfying meal since he left Earth. 

After the meal was over the Mayor, 
excusing himself, rose from the ta- 
ble and hopped on his polite leg to 
the potted yaccactus plant. Amidst 
the leaves he belched twice. Mrs. 
Aardvark, raised one of her 6 hands 
to her mouth and coughed. Perhaps 
radio reception from Earth was not 
all that it co’ild be, but she had 
plainly heard that, among Earthmen, 
a burp in the hand wes considered 
to be worth two in the bush. 

The last sensation Mr. Bradford 
had before he died was one of con- 
suming thirst. While the food he 
had been served had been edible, if 
weird, oddly no beverage had accom- 


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panied the meal. His hosts, them- 
selves. were parched for thirst, but 
in deference to their guest had re- 
frained from drinking, for the Aard- 
varks were acquainted with the eti- 
quette of Earth that prohibited the 
imbibing of liquids with food. A 
Karterian author by the name of 
Rudder Coupling had summed it up 
thus: “Eats Is eats and wets is wets, 
and never the twain shall meet.” 
The Aardvarks had heard it on a 
broadcast from Earth one night. 

Mrs. Aardvark, at the behest of 
her husband, had done her best to 
make an impression on Mr. Brad- 
ford, and she had succeeded to the 
extent of her fondest expectations. 
Mrs. Aarclvark's dinner made an un- 
dying impression on Mr. Bradford 
when he dropped dead. You see, Mrs. 
Aardvark hd put into practice an 
old Earthian proverb: One man's 
meat is another man's poison. 


THE END 




MARVEL SCIENCE STORIES— THE NEW STE MAGAZINE! 



taken tram an acfuat /effer 

WELCOME TO NATIONAL AtRUNESI 
yoou START AS etry t»awc 
MANA 6ER HERE IN TAMPA. 
6000 LUCK I 



I was a Worid War II pilot . . . 


A prisoner of war In Germany . 


Back home, I was hired by National . . 


IT WVIO HAVE TAKEN ME 
VTARS TO LEAf?N THE HAei> 
WAY WHAT 1 OET EASILV 

FROM i.c.Sr ~ y 

yOUNO MAN , TM VERY IM- 
PRESSED BVTHE PRO&RESS ^ 

tVE DOU8LEO MY EARNINOS 
SINCE! eE6AN MY I.CeS* 
STUDIES. AND I'M 60iN$ 

^ TO KEEP RIGHT AT IT* 

SHOWW IN 

THEse Reports [p= 

FfiCWl |,C.S./ ' 


ty 


studied with 1. C. S. in my spare lime . . , 

1. C. S. sent reports to my empioyer ... ism no'« Washington District Manager. 


How have you done since the war ? Start now to get the 
training that leads to advancement. Mail coupon today! 


PARKE WRIGHT 



V^ithcul cost at eblizstion, pisase send m 
Butineat and 
Academic Coursas 
Q Accouflting □ Ad^Ertising 

□ App. Psychology Q Bool>k»»ping 

□ Business AcJminisIraliofl 

□ Bus. Correspondence □ Bus. Law 

□ Certiried Public Accounting 

□ Coiiimerci'al 

□ Commereial Art 

□ Cast Accounting 

□ Federal Tax 

□ First Year Collage 

□ Foremar.shiy 
n Good Enpli.sfi 

□ Higher Mathemath 

□ III tusirisl Supervision 
Q Motor TfAlfic □ Pjsta! C;>-il Service 
C Retailing □ Retail Bus. Ms.-iscement 

□ Saiesmonship O Secretarial 

□ Sign Leltering G Stsnojijpny 

C S.nsii'ci! □ Trailic Vanageincnt 

Air Cenditior.ing ar.d 
Plumbin:! Courses 

□ Air Conditioning 

O Heating G Flunibing 

□ Rct'leetsiion □ S.esrr Fitting 


EOX 2(2!3-P, SCRANTON 9. PENNA. 

'ull partiedars about the c»«r$e BEFORE nhicti I have marked X: 


Chernies! Courses 
J Chemical Engineering 
j Ctiemtstry, Analytical 
3 Chemistry, Industrial 
T Chemistry, UIg. Iren & Slaal 


Electrical Courass 

□ ElKtncal Oralting 

□ EJacUical Engineering 

□ Electric Light and Power 

□ Lighting Technician 


□ PelriHeum fi»r.ning □ Ptastics □ Practical Electrician 


C French 
llish School 
IHustfauon 


] Pulp and Paper h'alung 
Civil engineering, Architec- 
tural and Mining Courccs 
] Archilectu.'e □ Architectural Draiting 
} Building Esbnaiing 
] Civil Engineering C Coal Mining 
j Cofs'.i'icting arid Building 
j rfighwjy Engineering 
3 Lumber Dealer 
i Reading StruclursI Btueprints 
] Sanitary Engineering 
3 L-'juctursI Drafting 

3 Surreying and SiL.nping 
Communlea Ciena Courses 


□ Power House Electric 

□ Snip Electrician 
Internal Combustion 
Engines Courses 

□ Auto Technicisn □ Avialioa 

□ Diesel-Electric 

□ Diesel Engines □ Gas Engines 
Mechanical Courses 

D AeronaoiKSl Engineer’s. Jr. 

□ Aircraft Draftir'g □ Flight Engieear 

□ Forging O Foundry Work 

□ Heat Treatment ol Metals 

□ Industrial Engineering 

□ Industrial Inslrumenlation 

□ Industrial Metallurgy 

□ Machine Shop 


3 Prat. FM and Television _ — , 

3 Free. Telephony • □ Raclid Operating □ Machine Stiop Inspection 
3 Radio, Central □ Radio Servicing O'Mechanical Drafting 
] Telegraph EnginsKing □ Mechanical Engineering 


□ Mold-Loft Work 

□ Pitlarnmaking— Hood, Metal 

□ Reading Shop Bfuaprints 

□ SheM-Metal Dralting 

□ Sheet-Metal Worker □ Ship Draftinf 

□ Ship Fining □ Tool Dasigning 

□ Toolmaking □ Welding Engineering 

□ Welding— Gas and Electric 
Railroad Courses 

□ AirBraks □ Car Inspector 

□ Oiesel Locomotive 

□ Lpcofflolive Engineer 

□ Locomotive Fireman 

□ Locomotive Maehimst 

□ Railroad Section Foreirv 

□ Steam and Diesel Loco. Eoi. 
Stationary Ertfllneerlng 
Coursoa 

□ Boiler making 

□ Combus. Engrg. □ Engipe Running 

□ Marina Engineering 

□ Power Plant Engr. □ Steam Envneet 
Textile Couraoe 

□ Cotton Manufecturing □ Leom fii^ 


Nema 






Pieaent Position 



fmalnved bv 




ErwoUmant under G4. Bill approved for World War >1 Vaterani Special tuKion rttsa le meiwtsri at tks AciMd Feicsw 
Censdian rsaidanh aend coupon to icrlerutionsl Correapondenes SctMola Ctitodian, Ltd., MenlTMl, Csrwdt. 



No SIR I - ATLAS 
Makes Muscles Grow 

\ Fast / fir grTf ^ 


GEE what a build J 
Didn’t it take a long 
time to get those muscles?. 


|St40WEl 


Will You Let ^ 
Me PROVE M 
I Con Moke ^ 
YOU 0 Weir Han? 


What a 
difference. 


5 inches 
of new 
Muscle 


CHARLES 

ATLAS 


For quick results 
,1 recommend 
Jb CHARLES 

atlas 


Here's what ATLAS 
1 did for me/ > 


Awarded the title 
of "Tlie World's 
Most rcrfectly de- 
reluped Man" in 
international con- 
test— In competi- 
tion with ALL men 
who would consent 
to appear against 


snapshot 


GAINED 

29 

POUNDS^ 


This Is noi 
studio picture 


touched snapshot. 


MinJacMi 

BEFORE 


MnJooob 

AFTER 


fellotvs are .becomlrig marvelous 
physical speclmeus — my way. I 
give you no gadgets or contrap- 
tions to fool with. When you have 
learned to develop your Strength 
through “Dynamic Tension” you 
can laugh at artificial muscle- 
malcpis. You simply utilize the 
DORMANT muscle-power in your 
own tiod-given body — watch it in- 
crease and multiply double-quick 
into real solid LIVE 


I DON’T care how old or young 
you are, or how ashamed of 
your present phy.slcal condition 
you may be. If you can simply 
raise your arm and flex It 1 can 
add SOLID MUSCLE to your bi- 
ceps — yes, on each arm— in dou- 
ble-quick time! Only 15 minutes 
a day — right in your own home — 
le adl the time I ask of you! And 
there's no cost if I fail. 


LET ME START SHOWING RESULTS FOR YOU 




1 cso broaden your shouldera. itronKth- 

S your ba^, develop your whole mu^cu- 
ayaum IKSIDE and . OUTSIDE! I can 
bA 4 incbea to your chest, give you a vise. 
tUw' ^p. make Uioae lags of your 
and ' powerful. I can shoot new s . . _ 
Into your old backbone, exercise those 
Inner organa, help you cram your body so 
full of pep, vigor and red-blooded vitali- 
ty that you wo.i't feel there's even ••stand- 
Insr room" left tor weakness and that 
lazy feeling! Befoiw I get through with 
you I'll have ; ' 


tcleel 


Whaf's My Secret? 

f'DYNAanO TENSION!” That’s 
the ticket! The Identical natural 
method that I . myself developed 
to change my body from the 
scrawny skinny chested weakling I 
was at 17 to my present super- 
pum phydquel Thousands of other 


My 




Too- 

k for 

you. So theory— so easy! Spend 
only IS mimiles a day In your 

you’ll he u-slng my meilio.l of 
’•Dynamic Tension" almo.si un- 
consciously every minute of the 

rlay—wnlkfng bending over, etc 

BUILD MUSCLE and VITAU- 


' beautiful suit of 


TV. 


'CHARLES ATLAS. Dept. 1453 
I 1 15 E. 23 St., New York 10, N. Y. 

I 

I I want the proof that your system of 
I “Dynamic Tension” will help make a New 
I Man of me — give me a healthy, husky body 
I and big muscular develo.pment. Send me 
I your free bonk. "Everlasting Hea,,.h and 
I Strength.’ 

I 

Everlasting Health & Strength B jjame Age 

In It I talk to you In straight- ! (Plec.se print or write plainly) 

from • the . shoulder l.vniruage • 
packed with Inspirational pictures I 
of myself and pupil.s— fellows < Artdr«Mt«i 

who became NEW MEN In ? AOarOSS 

strength, my way. Let me show B 
you what I can do for YOU! For ■ 

a real thrill, send for this book . V,. 

today. AT ONCE. CHARLrS ■ 

ATLAS, Dept 1453. 115 East I ' ••• State 

23rd SL. New York 10, N. Y. (a>>i m a m ~ ~ _ 


FREE BOOK 





GETTING BALD? 
GROW HAIR 


IN 30 DAYS OR DON'T PAY A CENT! 

Most Bald People Could Have Saved 
Their Hair Had They Acted in Time! 

Once you notice symptoms of TOO MUCH HAIR IN YOUR 
COMBINGS. ITCHY SCALP, EXCESSIVE DRYNESS OR OILINESS 

ACT IMMEDIATELY! 

Beware of too much hair in your 
comb, it is a dangerous symptom! 



"I recommend SAYVE 
because it's the best 
Science can do to 
SAVE YOUR HAIR'* 
— Rocco, Personal 
Barber of tha late 
THOMAS A. EDISON. 


Once you are BALD it’s too late, nothing can help you, not even SAYVE! So don’t delay, 
delay may cost you your hair! SAYVE keeps your sick scalp free of itchy dandmff, sebor- 
rhea, and stops the hair loss they cause. 

SAYVE KILLS the hair-destroying germs (1) Pityrosporum Ova'e, (2) Staphy- 
lococcus Albus and (3) Cornebacterium Acnes. Leading dermatologists leel chat in killing 
these germs you rid yourself of the scalp conditions that result in BALDNESS! SAY'VE has 
been extremely successful with "Difficult” hair and scalp conditions! So restful in the new 
and improved amazing SAYVE formula that you’ll ^row more virile hair WITHIN 30 
Days or you return the unused portion and your money will be refunded! 

SAYVE is an exclusive laboratory-created formula. Used by Rocco, Barber to the late 
Thomas A. 'Edison. DON’T DARE TO DELAY! MAIL COUPON and test it at home for 
10 days FREE at our expense! 


SEND NO MONEY 


GUARANTEE 

If the SAYVE HAIR FORMULA isn't 
better than any product or treatment 
you have ever had, If you don't grow 
more virile hair in 30 days, If it 
doesn't do>for you what it has done 
for others, if you are not delighted 
with It, return It and your money will 
be refunded in .full. SAYVE is guar- 
anteed to both MEN and WOMEN! 

SAYVE HAIR COMPANY 
I02S Broad Street Newark. N. J. 


SAYVE HAIR COMPANY. Dept. 

1025 Broad Street, Newark, New Jersey 

Rush the SAYVE hair and scalp treatment (?0-dav 
supply] in plain wrapper. 1 must be 130% satisfied 
with the results of this treatment, I must grow more 
virile hair in 30 days, or my money will be refunded 
upon return of the unused portion. I am the sole 
judge. 

□ Enclosed find JS. {Cash, check or money order.] 
Send postage prepaid, 

□ Send C.O.O. I will pay postman $5 plus postage 

NAME 


ADDRESS 

CITY ZONE STATE... 

I understand if not delighted with the new and im 
proved SAYVE hair formula, I can return the unused 
portion after 10 days for full purchase price refund 


SENT ON APPROVAL 




PcxpcK Rors. digiCcvC 
is i:oRcvcR. 

PfieseRve youR pu(ps rodc\y. 


]p yoLi u.iou(d (ike ro join 

OUR yRoup, 
p(cAsc visir us c\r 
^://a,u,u,.r.ch„„g